A Bit Worse
by VulpineBeesKnees
Summary: If you have not read our first story, A Bit Not Good, I must insist you read that first. After a disastrous Christmas party John disappears. Moriarty is back and he's not done playing.
1. The Game

**A/N: **If you haven't read part one - A Bit Not Good - I highly suggest you go read that first. We will be updating on Monday's and Friday's again. Go follow us on tumblr

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_"Don't leave me John."_

The words echoed in his mind painfully. John had hardly made it down the road before a black car pulled up beside him. Assuming it was Mycroft, or someone working for him, John stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and kept walking. He was not ready to face Sherlock, let alone all of their friends. He had been wanting this, he'd known he had. If he had wanted to stop Sherlock from kissing him he could have pulled away, but no he'd kissed him back. The worst part was how ridiculously naive he felt.

He should have know this was coming, been ready for it, but no. He had run away. John wasn't even sure what kind of experience Sherlock had in this area. God what impression had he given the poor sod by running away.

_"I'm sorry..."_

John let out a defeated groan, he needed to go back and fix this before it was too late.

The car had rolled along slowly, following him down the road. This was between him and Sherlock, not Mycroft or any of their friends. Besides, their butting in had caused this mess. John turned around, ready to tell whoever it was off but was surprised to see Mary, her arms crossed over the open window of the backseat with her chin resting delicately on top of her arms.

She smiled sweetly, almost an innocent look on her face. "What are you doing out by yourself on Christmas Eve?" She cocked her head to the side, feigning interest. "No one to spend the evening with?"

He hesitated for a moment, before shaking his head. "Don't worry about it Mary. I'll see you at work next week." John turned to keep walking, but was stopped after a moment by her hand on his. When had she gotten out of the car? She tugged at his wrist softly, turning him to face her.

"We've missed you at work this week." She stood waiting for him to respond in any way, but drained and confused John just stood there with a look on his face that said 'Get on with it. I have places to be.'

When it became apparent that he wasn't going to offer any information she continued. "Just let me give you a ride. My father and I are on our way home now." She gestured toward the black car.

Shaking his head John pulled his hand back from hers, "It's fine Mary. I'm just down the road."

A delicate falsetto tone of male voice rang out from inside the open vehicle. "Mary..."

Her face twitched in irritation before turning back to John, the smile quickly returning. Before John knew what was happening she had raised her other hand, which had been closed in a tight fist at her side, and blew a fine powder into his face.

"Bloody hell Mary!" John exclaimed. Done with whatever she was playing at, worried about she had just done to him, John jumped back. He just had enough time to try and contemplate what she might have been doing when she asked again.

"Go on and get in the car John." The false smile had stretched a little wider, making her look a bit predatory.

_No_.

The thought rang out in John's mind, loud and clear, but his body didn't listen. Stripped of any free will, John climbed into the back seat of the dark car internally screaming. An older man was driving and he turned in his seat to cock his head at John, flashing a malicious grin. He had a soft face, but smile plastered across his features was almost predatory.

"Ah, John. How kind of you to join us." He turned back as Mary slid into the car and John felt the car begin to pull away from the curb.

Mary was sitting too close, her hand caressing the side of his cheek. Whatever she had just drugged him with made it impossible for him to react in anyway, all he could do was observe. "You're going to be a very, very good boy Johnny. You just sit still until we tell you otherwise." Her entire demeanor had changed and her voice was sickly sweet. How could this be the woman he'd been working with for years? "Not that you have much choice." Letting out a short laugh she fell back against the seat, running one hand through Johns hair. "Things would have been a lot easier had you not turned me down. Right daddy?"

"It's all worked out for the best." The voice from the man in the front of the car floated back, "Have you figured out it out yet? The drug?"

John felt his head shake no, he was terrified.

"No? Scopolamine. Heard of it?"

Immediately John responded, but his voice sounded foreign, and monotone. "It's used in sedatives. Higher doses cause the victim to lose all free will" Fear flooded his mind as he registered his own answer.

"Good!" He exclaimed, "Took a bit of leg work to get ahold of it, but it was definitely worth it, don't you think? Anyhow, just so you understand, from now on I own you. You are a pawn in my game and if Sherlock doesn't play, I will not hesitate to dispose of you. If he isn't careful you will be dead by the end of this."

Sherlock stared for a long moment at the black screen, his stomach churning and a cold sweat forming across his brow.

"Who is this?" He asked, his voice low and dangerous.

"Oh my _dear _boy, who do you think?" The camera changed from black to being moved around and then finally a man's face became visible. He had a high forehead,and his cheekbones were prominent, though not as much so as his own, his lips were thin and his mouth was filled with a row of small teeth that reminded Sherlock of a shark when he smiled. He couldn't help for a moment but think the man looked somewhat familiar, which threw him off for a few seconds. He wore a heavy leather coat with a tall collar and black plastic frame glasses.

But the thing that commanded his attention once he noticed, was that John was standing in the background. From what he could tell he wasn't bound, gagged or restrained in any way. He was just standing with his chest out and hands to his sides, a perfect image of military bearing, a pained expression on his face.

"Moriarty..." It wasn't a question.

"Ha ha! My dear boy you are just as smart as I knew you would be. I'm so glad to finally talk to you on my own. My apologies for the delay, but I had to be sure you were ready." His grin was wide, "I've just acquired a new pet you see," he turned the phone so that he was no longer in the picture, but focused solely on John. "Pretty when he stands at attention isn't he?" A hand came out to caress John's face, but he didn't react, didn't run. If Sherlock hadn't been able to see the terrified look buried behind the blue eyes, he wouldn't have known that John didn't want to be there.

"What have you done to him?" The detective growled.

"My assistant just administered a small little drug to him, but don't worry, we didn't give him enough to kill him, just to make him... compliant." Sherlock wanted to throw his phone, wanted to destroy everything in the flat, but it wouldn't make any difference. His mind was running through a list of all the drugs he knew to try and figure it out when Moriarty spoke again.

"Devil's Breath dear, do keep up."

_Devil's Breath. Chemically named: Scopolamine. Used in some mild sedatives but in it's raw form can render the victim coherent but with no free will. Susceptible to any suggestion. Works within seconds, made from the Borrachero tree. Odorless. Tasteless. _

Moriarty turned to look at John and commanded him down on all fours which, the man obliged, and a woman Sherlock didn't recognize came over and sat in the small of his back, a nasty looking whip in her hand lined with metal and little spikes at the end. Sherlock wanted to cry out, but was afraid if he did so they might hurt John just for the sake of hurting him.

"I want you to play a little game with me Sherlock. Time to give Daddy a little quality time."

"You've said that before. Called yourself Daddy when talking to me. Why?"

"Oh, I'm disappointed. I rather thought you'd have that figured out already. Pity. I suppose you'll just have to work harder on that.." He gave a manic little giggle, as Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He had so many other important things to be doing than solving an idiotic riddle. However he'd have to think more on it later when he had the chance, it could prove to be useful. Ignoring it for now, he pressed on with his questioning.

"If you're the real Moriarty, who was Richard Brooke?"

"Richard Brook was still just a name, you had guessed correctly on the rooftop of Barts."

"How could you possibly know I'd guessed that?" Sherlock asked, his eyes narrowing. He had been alone with, whoever Richard Brook was, and he had died upon that roof. There was no way Moriarty could know that.

"He was wearing a wire of course."

"Mycroft would have found it. The Holmes are not as idiotic as you seem to think."

"There were men waiting to strip his body of any evidence the moment you jumped. It was easy really. No one would suspect a doctor going out for a smoke on the roof." Moriarty's lips curled into a sneer, "The man who killed himself in front of you was Sebastian Moran. My son, and brother to one Mary Moran. I believe your doctor knows her well. Under the pretense of Mary Morstan to protect her from your brother's prying eyes" He grin turned devilish and he looked back to the woman now running her nails along Johns ear and neck, paying no attention to the call what so ever.

The line was silent for a few painful moments before the camera changed. Moriarty was walking around the room so John was no longer visible. "So now my dear boy, I have some games for you to play, to prove your worth."

"And if I refuse?" the waiver in his voice was evident. Moriarty knew he wouldn't refuse. Not with John held captive.

_'I still owe you. Your heart is still alive...' _Moriarty knew exactly who held his heart. Nothing he could do to Sherlock could measure to watching this.

"Then your heart..." he moved around to where John was, the only one in the screen once more,the woman had let him up and he was standing at attention once more. Her hand flicked a switchblade out and drew it down John's face, bringing blood to the surface to bubble down his temple, "Your heart will continue to bleed in worse ways until you agree to play my game."

"You know I'll play! Leave John alone!" The anger and fear creeping through his veins was making him shake, his head swimming at the sight of John being held at the mercy of this madman.

"Very good! I'll send you your first clue in the morning. Sleep tight my dove!" and the call was ended.


	2. Monster

John was shaking by the end of the call. Save for the demonstration he had been standing at attention since they'd arrived. He had been walked in with his eyes closed so he had no idea where he was, and hadn't been told anything. He'd been left standing alone for what he could only assume was hours before Moriarty and Mary had returned.

Moriarty walked slowly up to John, like he was stalking prey. The grin had faded, an angry and confused scowl taking its place.

"He won't save you. I'll make him kill himself, for good this time, before I give you back to him." His face was barely an inch from John's, he towered over him and his breath was hot and sticky. Moriarty glowered down at John for a moment longer before turning away in a huff. He stopped in the doorway of the small dark room and turned to glare at John.

"Why?!" He screamed back at John, his voice almost a growl. "You're not special, you're ordinary and pathetic. And he allows such a disgusting weakness to control him! Why!?"

John bit at his lip in an attempt to not answer, but the drug was still coursing through him. One word slipped out painfully. "_Love_." John saw the anger his forced response caused immediately.

Moriarty swooped back down on him before he knew what was happening. "He can not love!" Grabbing John by the back of his hair he wrenched his neck back, pressing something cold and sharp to his neck. "He does not love you, he can't love anything or anyone! He. Is. Me."

Pushing Johns head forward he threw the man to the ground, before stepping over him to exit the room. In an off hand voice he spoke to Mary, "He should be compliant for another 4 hours. Do with him what you like, just make sure he's alive in the morning for act one."

Sherlock was out of his chair like a bolt, coat on in a matter of seconds and flying down the staircase.

"Where are you off too in such a hurry?" Came Mrs. Hudson's voice from her doorway.

"Mrs. Hudson," he turned back to her, his eyes wild, "Moriarty has John. I won't be home until he's with me." She had come to his side now, and he leaned over and kissed her cheek, "Goodbye Mrs. Hudson."

With that he was out the door and hailing a taxi, leaving the older woman standing agape with her hand clasped over her mouth. Leaning against the door jamb as though it was the only thing keeping her up.

After a flurried drive to the Holmes estate, Sherlock burst through the doors of his library to find Mycroft and Lestrade pouring over CCTV tapes. One of his lackeys that watched the tapes for him must have tipped him off about the video call, spurring the two into action. Sherlock wasn't surprised, he hadn't done a sweep for Mycroft's spying gear since he'd come home and he was sure there was some from when he'd been spying on John for him.

"What have you found?"

"Nothing of interest yet..." Lestrade said shaking his head. He was standing next to Mycroft, a hand on his shoulder as the man flickered his eyes over about six different screens.

"Wait... there." He pointed to a screen. The screen showed a place not that far from Baker street, and a black car pulled up beside where John was walking. On another screen, the same area but from a different angle, he could see John conversing with the woman from the video that he assumed was Mary Moran. Soon after she got out of the car and blew something in his face.

"The Scopolamine..." Sherlock breathed. Shortly after, she leaned down and whispered something in his ear and he got into the car willingly. The car then drove away. Mycroft was able to follow the unmarked car from where they first found them to a tunnel. There weren't any cameras in the tunnel, and the car didn't emerge from the other side.

"Damnit!" Sherlock slammed his fist down on the table causing all the monitors to shake.

Together, Mycroft and Lestrade calmed Sherlock down just enough to get him to explain the phone call he'd received and what exactly they were dealing with.

"He thinks this is a game." Sherlock growled, turning his attention back to his brother. "Who is he Mycroft? He's got some sick fantasy, calling himself _daddy_." Sherlock lips curled at the statement, but concern flitted across Mycroft's features.

Turning back to the computer he keyed in a few commands before turning the screen where Sherlock could see it. "Is that him?" Mycroft's voice was low, almost fearful.

The detective sucked in a painful gasp of air. "Who. Is. He." He bit out, gritting his teeth together.

Mycroft pinched his brow painfully for a moment, rubbing at his face in anguish. "He called himself Martin James Roy... I'm sorry Sherlock. This man left our mother shortly after you were born, he's our father." Mycroft spoke slowly, choosing his words with great care.

Sherlock took a stumbling step back and sank into one of the leather office chairs. His face had gone white, and his eyes wide. His mind was reeling, muttering the names under his breath. The few files the government had on Moriarty listed his full name as James Napoleon Moriarty. "James N. Moriarty," He breathed shaking his head. "An anagram… How disgustingly boring."

At that he seemed to lose his composure. "Our... Father." He muttered as if in a trance as he looked back to Mycroft for more answers. "But how..."

His mind raced back to the initial feeling of familiarity he had experienced and now realized that the man calling himself Moriarty had looked enough like Mycroft to be considered kin.

"It's-why? Why would our father be doing this?" He asked, not realizing he'd spoken out loud. Curling tighter in on himself, he took refuge in his mind palace, feverishly searching his archives for anything that might help.

Mycroft moved around his desk to stand in front of Sherlock, tentatively placing one hand on the detectives shoulder to pull him back to reality.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, I thought he was dead. I looked for him for a while after I graduated, but there was nothing." He said gently, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder. He swallowed thickly, obviously distraught by the new information. "We will find them."

Sherlock came back to himself slowly, and everything fell back into place. The mastermind who he'd found so entertaining was his own father. The one he'd never thought he had. Now, the world's most powerful mastermind had John, and was dead set on one of them dying before they were back together. He wanted to watch Sherlock dance... but why? The edges of his mind felt like they were wobbling as he tried to keep calm without John to ground him.

His intellect, the only thing he'd ever been proud of was now jeopardized. Someone so heartless and cold had been a creator of the mind he utilized for good. How could he continue to believe that there was any good in himself at all with a predecessor like that? All the hard work John had done to build him up was coming crumbling down and Sherlock wasn't sure he could stop it.

"I've bested Moriarty before. It's taken him three years to get this far, of course we'll find him." He said, slowly unfolding his long limbs from the chair and moving to look over the CCTV tapes once more. Then almost under his breath, he continued.

"We have to."

"I know." Mycroft assured him, letting Sherlock take over with the CCTV tapes. There wasn't anything else to find, but it seemed to keep the detectives mind busy to a point. After a while, Mycroft and Lestrade left Sherlock to pour over the video footage, doing research of their own.

Around four in the morning, Lestrade returned to the library to find Sherlock still at the desk with the monitors, rewinding and rewatching the moment John got into the car over and over. Sherlock looked awful, his eyes were wide, but unseeing, his face gaunt with worry. Lestrade laid a gentle hand on the detective's shoulder and his shoulders dropped, the detective slumping to the table defeated.

"How could I let this happen?" he asked Lestrade from his pillowed arms, "I should have never let John leave... I knew it would only lead to strife, and yet I let him go..."

"Sherlock, you can't blame yourself, it's only going to make it harder for you to find him. If he hadn't been kidnapped then you know Moriarty would have found him sooner or later. Now come on, let's put that mind of yours to use and figure out where they are."

Sherlock raised his head slightly and looked at the Detective Inspector in a new light. He nodded softly and both of them sat together going over the video again.

Around eight Lestrade yawned and excused himself. Mycroft, who had come to relieve him offered a chaste kiss before sending him away to bed. Soon after, Sherlock received a text with a video from John's mobile. Opening the file, he held his phone between them to allow Mycroft to watch as well..

"Good morning!" Came Moriarty's exuberant voice. "I hope you slept well, because you're in for a long day if you didn't" He giggled maniacally before turning the camera to show him the small ledge he was standing on. There was a black box, no, a button set into the stone of the ledge. The camera panned down to the street below, and Sherlock could tell that the older man was standing on the top of Big Ben.

"I've planted a little bomb somewhere beneath the house of parliament. It's also big enough to cause a vast amount of damage to six square miles with the shockwave alone.." The camera panned back to Moriarty's face. He was smiling devilishly, enjoying this entirely too much. "I have also placed a button up here on the clock tower. In order to keep the bomb from going off you'll need to hold it down. You have an hour to get in position, and you must come alone. You'll have to stay there for eight hours to keep the bomb from going off. If you disobey any of my orders... I'm afraid it will be _very unfortunate_ for your dear John... Hope your little tumble from Barts didn't make you afraid of heights." He laughed again as the video ended.

Sherlock was on his feet and on his way out the door before Mycroft could catch up.

"You can't just go, you're playing right into his hand!" Mycroft said, grabbing Sherlock's arm. The normal icy facade that Mycroft seemed to constantly hold had deteriorated. There was genuine fear and concern in his tone.

"I can and I will. He has John, I can't let anything happen to him, I'm sure you know the feeling." He glanced towards the doorway the Detective Inspector had exited through not twenty minutes before, "If you're going to try to stop me..." his eyes narrowed, "I'll take you out too." then with no more time to talk, Sherlock was gone.


	3. The Beginning

It didn't take him long to get to Big Ben, but there were tourists everywhere. Cautiously, he made his way into the building and, eyeing the security, slipped into the maintenance area. The service elevator took him almost all the way to the top, but there was still a few staircases to maneuver. Finally he found himself behind the clock faces. Going through the video again mentally, he realized which ledge held the button he had seen earlier, the street below in the video was all he needed. Sure enough one of the panels on the North East side had been recently opened, making it easy for him to slip through and out into the open air.

The ledge was narrow and Sherlock was nervous as he slowly made his way out to the button, the cold London air whipping around him of falling from the hospital roof spidered across his vision, and the detective had to force the images away. Stepping both feet on the button, he breathed a deep sigh and gripped onto the metalwork of the clock face behind him. Suddenly, as if on cue, his phone rang.

He turned around, slipping his arm through a metal beam, he held it up and answered the video call from John's mobile.

"Well that was rather quick. You are very good at following orders aren't you boy?" Moriarty drawled into the microphone the moment the phone was answered. The camera was on, but for the moment the screen was black

"I've never been one for following orders, but you do have my flatmate." he tried to sound nonchalant, but he was sure the slight breathlessness in his voice gave him away, "Also, it does intrigue one to have said flatmate kidnapped by someone responsible for half of your genetic makeup. A father who's been missing for over thirty years... To what do I owe the honor?"

"You're really just figuring that out?" Moriarty laughed, "Pity, I really had higher hopes for you. But yes, Sherlock. Seb told you didn't he? 'You're me." Another icy laugh filtered through the shrill of the air whipping around the tower. Sherlock could see people crowding around at the base of the tower, already attracting an audience.

"You see," Moriarty continued when he had calmed himself, "He wasn't exactly right. You aren't really him, you weren't even brothers, simply half brothers... You'll like this bit though, it was actually a bit of an experiment, the old nature versus nurture. Where I was with your mother for her intellect, the Moran's mother was just a wee bit crazy. I killed her right after Mary was born and raised them myself. But you... You were the crown jewel in my experiment."

"The prodigal son, and you've already proved yourself. You've been playing this game for so long, and you didn't even know it... When Seb killed that boy at the pool, I was impressed no doubt, but when you actually began investigating it... That was when I knew this would work and it has." His voice had grown soft, almost nostalgic. "You've already proved you are more than worthy."

Sherlock felt like he might be ill. The thought that his entire existence was the whim of a madman was not something he entertained keeping. He'd have to delete it as soon as he could or it would eat away at him forever. However, he was careful not to let his weakness show. "You must have a god complex to think you were capable of pulling this off."

"Capable? I already have." Moriarty replied with a smirk. "You see I raised Sebastian and Mary to be like me. Raised them to embrace the criminal lifestyle, taught them how to play people and weave a web of deceit. But you," his voice grew feverish with excitement, "With you, it's all natural. All that intelligence passed down from your mother and I. No... playing the game with Nature versus Nurture was too much to pass up."

"I knew that I couldn't keep the idea of the consulting criminal alive when I started going senile, so I'd need a successor. I'd need to start young, and it would need to stay in the family. But I needed to devise a way to pit all my children against each other, and of course you did beautifully against Sebastian. Poor boy, he thought if he could force you to kill yourself at least Mary would win." He tutted softly to himself, an almost reminiscent look crossing his features, which quickly was replaced by the evil grin. "But you outsmarted him didn't you?"

Moriarty was quiet for a second, the only sound coming from the rustling of the phone being moved about in the dark, suddenly there was light and he could see Moriarty's face, eyes racing back and forth reading something on the screen in front of him.

"Oh Sherlock.. I told you to come alone." he tutted softly, his attention turning back to the camera so it appeared he was looking straight at Sherlock.

Turning and looking over his shoulder, Sherlock could see some of Mycroft's men in the actual tower.

"NO!" He shouted, but they didn't hear him and were milling around trying to figure out how to help him.

"I told you to come alone. Now poor John will pay the consequences."

"No! I told Mycroft to let me do this! This is not my fault!"

"Too bad!" The evil madman laughed as the camera turned so that John could be seen, sitting in a chair, and Mary standing beside him, a large grin on her face.

Mary had been kinder than John expected after Moriarty had left him to her the night before. Sitting on the floor she drew his head into her lap, cleaning the dried blood from his face gently.

"Don't mind daddy, he's just cross with Sherlock, he always thought Sherlock would be the best of us all." John couldn't believe how manic she sounded compared to the woman he'd become friends with over the past three years. Running her hand through the hair along his forehead she continued talking.

"I don't think you're worthless though, I see why Sherlock likes to keep your company. I'd be jealous... But he hasn't had you yet has he?" John felt his stomach clench as she drug a sharp nail down the side of his face suggestively. There was absolutely nothing he could do to pull away from her, but a small whine escaped his lips. "Oh don't worry luv, we'll save that for later. I wouldn't want Sherlock to miss the fun."

Standing she let his head fall to the concrete with a resounding and painful thud. He closed his eyes listening to her walk to the other side of the room. "You may as well get some sleep, we're going to have fun tomorrow." The promise made him feel sick to his stomach. "No moving around or trying to escape." Then turning off the one light left in the room she opened the door and left him.

He tried opening his eyes, but the pitch darkness closed around him painfully. Slowly his mind receded, allowing him a sort of distorted sleep, riddled with nightmares. When he awoke hours later and found he had control of himself again he pulled his body against a wall. Wrapping his arms around his legs. His body shook violently and he didn't know if it was the after effects of the drug or the nightmares.

John sat against the wall for hours, violent tremors racking his frame. When he finally heard the door open and looked up from his arms he glared maliciously at the tall man entering the room. He was physically exhausted, but he wasn't broken, not yet.

Moriarty didn't look to John as he swept into the room, Mary followed behind him, dragging a thick wooden chair behind her. When the chair was settled in the middle of the room, under the single pot light, Moriarty finally acknowledged Johns presence.

In a snarled growl he snapped, "Get over here."

Johns jaw set defiantly as he met the man's gaze. His eyes were horribly similar to Sherlocks. Moriarty waited a moment before snaking his neck back, that's where Sebastian had picked up that animalistic move, and walking over to where John sat curled in on himself. Grabbing him by the hair he wrenched John to his feet leaning in close to his ear, his breath sticking to Johns sweat soaked skin.

"You are in no position to defy me." The growl had disappeared from his voice, revealing a disgustingly sweet voice. "I. Own. You."

John was dragged to the chair by his hair and violently pushed into it. John had to bite back the desire to lash out at them both. He wanted to lash out, to fight back, but he knew anything he did would affect Sherlock. John was a soldier, an old and broken one perhaps, but he believed he could handle whatever torturous acts they had planned for him. He also knew Sherlock. Every act of torture would dig deeper at the detective, until he was mad with rage.

As the older man circled John menacingly he desperately tried not to think of how he'd left Sherlock the night before. If he hadn't left, if he hadn't been so unnecessarily worried about other people, none of this would have happened.

After a few painfully silent moments Moriarty stopped in front of John. Crouching he place his hands on the back of the chair, pinning Johns head between his leather clad arms. His head fell to the side slowly, piercing John with those hauntingly familiar eyes.

Pushing off of the chair he nodded towards Mary, who swooped in behind the chair, her thin arms dropped over the back. Nimble fingers began dancing across his temples and down to his shoulders. He could see Moriarty pulling his own phone from his pocket again and John jerked away from her hands, only to be pressed back into the chair. Her nails cut into the skin under his collarbone as she tutted disapprovingly.

Fear gripped John as he heard Sherlock's voice over the loudspeaker. He opened his mouth to tell Sherlock to hang up, to not give in to whatever demands the madman had, but Mary's thin hand gripped his jaw painfully.

"Speak and he'll die." She hissed into his ear. "Understand?"

Biting his lip, he nodded quickly. John wasn't sure whether it was a bluff or not but he wasn't prepared to test it. He could hear the entire conversation, and the realizations only made him feel worse. This man was Sherlock's father, Moriarty had never died. It was all some elaborate scheme, something you'd hear about in a horror film.

John knew something was wrong when Moriarty grew quiet, and he tensed in turn. Letting go of him Mary moved to his side and the phone was set up on a dock, the camera facing the two of them. John felt his lip quiver slightly, his hands balling to fists. He knew Sherlock could see him now.

Moriarty spoke from behind the phone, loud enough that both John and the detective could hear him. "I gave Sherlock specific directions, and he refused to follow them. He did this to you. I want you to remember that, he could have protected you today, but he chose not to."


	4. 45

**A/N: TW: **non-con elements at play in this chapter and torture. Just making sure we are all aware of what is going on.

Also we will be doing updates on Monday, Thursday and Saturday now.

Also check out our youtube channel 'vulpinebeesknees' There you can find playlists for our fics.

Sherlock continued to voice his protests. He had not broken any rules, this was not his fault, but his pleas were to no avail. All was silent for a moment, He could only see John staring defiantly past the camera and Mary looming over him.

On of the MI5 agents Mycroft had undoubtedly sent managed to find the correct panel, beginning to edge out onto the platform. Sherlock growled deep in his throat as he lashed out at the man.

"Take all of your men and get down from here. If I am interfered with the consequences will be much worse. If you force me to get down thousands, if not more, will die. In the interest of security it would behove you to convince local authorities that there is no threat and make sure absolutely no one is allowed up here again.

The man attempted to argue, but Sherlock cut him off, "If my brother has an issue than he can climb up here and take care of it. Do you really want the blood that would result from me moving from this position on your hands?"

He didn't have a response, but after a moment he slunk back inside the body of the tower, shouting commands at the rest of his team.

When Sherlock's attention was entirely focused on the small screen once again Mary dropped to Johns level , whispering something in his ear causing his entire body to tense. Rocking on her heels she waited, she had asked him to do something and he was refusing to comply. He wasn't drugged. After it became evident he wasn't going to play along she stood shaking her head and walked out of site of the camera. Returning she opened her hand in front of him, blowing the familiar fine powder into his face. Careful to wipe her hand off on his clothing she returned to his side, one hand in his hair.

After a few minutes it became evident that the drug had taken effect, his face had relaxed slightly and his fists had fallen limp. His eyes still screamed out painfully.

"Shirt. Off." She commanded, her voice a lustful snarl.

Slowly John fingered open the buttons and leaned forward in the chair to comply, letting the deep red silk button up he'd chosen for the holiday party pool to the ground in front of him.

"Good boy," her voice drawled, John stared forward mindlessly, seemingly disconnected from the whole situation.

"Don't you dare touch him you bitch!" Sherlock snarled. His lack of sleep over the past few days only made his anger and frustration at the entire situation much worse, "I swear to god if you touch him I'll-"

"You'll what?" She asked looking at the camera, and in turn Sherlock, "As long as I've got this little toy of yours here, you can't touch me..." She grabbed the back of the chair, and with a strength surprising for her size, turned the chair with John in it at a three-quarter angle so that Sherlock could see everything she was about to do. Pulling her long dark hair back over her shoulders, she lifted a leg and straddled John's thighs, her own legs splitting wide and obscenely.

"I saw the way you used to look at me in the hospital John." She said just loud enough for both men to hear, "I saw the way your eyes would go directly to my breasts when I would enter the room..." She slid her hands up the sides of her chest teasingly. Leaning in closer, she slid her own hands up his bare chest, her lips grazing his ear, eyes on Sherlock's seemingly as she spoke her next bit.

"I'm going to kiss you, and you're going to kiss me back. You are going to passionately do to me everything we know you want to do to the detective watching us right now, and you are going to like it." Closing the lobe of his ear in her teeth gently, she pulled back, nails scratching seductively down his chest as she captured his lips with her own, fingers now moving to spur John's into action, moving them to rest high on her waist, thumbs just brushing the underside of her breasts.

His stomach twisted as his lips began to move desperately against her own, he knew it was all wrong but it was like his mind was being warped. An innate desire sparked within the pit of his stomach. He hated it. But that didn't stop him from cupping her breast greedily while nipping at her bottom lip. He could feel her smiling maliciously against his lips, and his mind drifted to the detective. Almost unconsciously mulling over everything he'd dreamed of doing to that beautiful, perfect, body.

One hand grazed down Mary's side to catch her hips as she rolled them against his own. Wrapping his arm around her lower back, dragging her shirt up to reveal soft alabaster skin, he pulled her in grinding their hips together.

Johns mind was elsewhere as he moaned into her mouth softly. Hands gripping the back of the chair Mary pulled her mouth from his. Still rolling her hips against the doctors she caught the camera with her eyes, speaking seductively to John, loud enough that she knew Sherlock could hear.

"You like this don't you John."

Sherlock knew that this was all because of the sodding drug they'd given John. He knew that despite all the feelings for each other there literally was nothing solid or definite between them. But those facts did nothing to staunch the small feeling of betrayal that blossomed in his gut. He should be kissing those lips, it should be him drawing those noises from the retired soldier. He was not mad at John, the betrayal he felt was from himself. He couldn't protect John from this.

Leaning in to nip at his earlobe, Mary whispered a command, "Moan for him. Say his name, let him hear what he'll never have."

As she trailed down his neck, biting at the skin roughly, he heard himself gasp out shakily "Sherlock."

His heart clenched at that. Even through the lust he could hear the tortured tone in his voice. Slamming his fist against the glass he cursed under his breath, not wanting to watch, but unable to take his eyes away. A gust of wind blew, nearly knocking him off balance, but he held fast.

A low moan escaped John's lips and both hands gripped at Mary's hips as she bit down on his collarbone suddenly, sucking at the skin. And as she trailed across his chest, marking the other side of him just as roughly, he breathed out shakily. Words tumbled from his mouth, thick with misplaced lust.

"Oh god... Sherlock... Sorry."

Her head snapped up and she stopped moving against him at the last word.

"No." She hissed. One hand snaked up to lace her hands through the short blond hair. Gripping tightly she turned his head, forcing him to look at the phone still focused on him, but he kept his eyes closed.

"Look at him!" She snapped. Begrudgingly John opened his eyes, focusing on the small circle on the back of his phone that was feeding everything to Sherlock. "Don't you dare apologise John, he's the one that made this happen to you." Careful to make sure Sherlock saw she snuck one hand between her own legs, rubbing John through the dark jeans. Her voice dropped again, as she leaned in. Her lips grazing the shell of his ear as she spoke. "Tell him /pet./ Tell him this is all his fault."

John couldn't even manage to hesitate, his gaze never faltering thanks to the Devil's Breath.

"This is your fault."

The detective grit his teeth, holding on tighter to the metal, wishing he could close his eyes to the pain. But he couldn't. John was right. This was his fault. He had drug the doctor into this mess, and now they were both paying for it.

Forcing him to turn back to her, Mary smiled sweetly and leaned in. "Good boy." She muttered against his lips before kissing him deeply, grinding her hips against him once more. Her breath was getting shorter, and her own moans were getting louder. Arching her back, she moved John's hands up so that he was holding her weight as she leaned back farther, balancing herself with her hands on his knees. Her hips were moving furiously against his.

"Moan for him John!" She cried out breathlessly, "Let him know exactly what he's losing. Make him beg for us to release you...'" her voice became maniacal as she continued to grind against John in ways she knew would be pleasing to the doctor's drugged body.

Sherlock had tore his eyes away for a moment, but now, hearing those words made him look back. With the new position he could see clearly the dark marks she'd left on John's chest and he roared furiously.

Whatever twisted fantasy the doctors mind had attempted to create shattered painfully as he heard Sherlocks strangled scream through the phone. Opening his eyes, which had been clamped shut in utter denial, the sick feeling in his stomach returned. He didn't want to see her grinding against himself. Worse yet, he didn't want to enjoy it... But he was.

John could feel his pulse quickening as his fingers dug into her back as she arched back into his hands. He closed his eyes, it was all he could do to stop himself from greedily staring at her body rolling against his own. Broken words slipped out desperately as he moaned.

"Sherlock... God dammit... Please..."

His words sounded like strangled cries as he planted his feet on the ground to use it for leverage, pressing his hips up to meet hers at an angle that was utterly obscene. Having no control over his body or his reactions he felt like an animal, like a /pet/.

Hearing the doctor moan and seeing his actions was almost too much at this point. He felt broken, like the dams on his anger had released and nothing could stop him. Nothing was more important than getting John away from this madman and his daughter. Not innocent lives, not the lives of anyone he knew, not even his own.

"You filthy whore... I will kill you for this... I swear it." his voice was cold and sharp, something he'd never expressed before in his life, "I swear to you John... I'll find you."

Mary's annoying laugh filtered through the speakers again as she looked off camera, "I think he's had enough Daddy..." she said breathlessly. The camera was moved once more and Moriarty's face filled the screen again.

"Well I believe you have a long day ahead of you up there my boy. I suppose this will give you ample time to reflect on how to better protect your doctor in the future. I hope my little punishment has taught you to obey." His laughter echoed in Sherlock's ears along with the continued moans of Mary and John as the video cut.

"No!" Sherlock cried. Worse than watching what was happening was not knowing whether that vile woman was taking advantage of John's drugged state or not. "NO!" He screamed slamming his fist against the heavy glass again. It throbbed in pain as he hung his head, resting it on the glass in front of him.

"They can not get away with this..." he told himself, "And you'd better be ready to do what's necessary..."

Moriarty had watched silently from the dark shadows at the edge of the small room, but once the phone was off he stepped into the circle of light, behind the chair.

"That's enough Mary." His voice was sharp and bitter once again, any mirth he'd had during the call gone.

She just smirked back up at him over John's head. The doctor was lost to their conversation as he held her back with one hand, the other grasping at her hip, pulling her down against himself hard. Soft strangled whimpers escaped, and even he couldn't tell if they were from the desire pooling in his groin with each motion or the heart wrenching pain his psyche was going through.

The man now leaning on the back of the chair, watched the whole scene with disdain. "I really thought you were better than Sherlock, but I suppose you have the same /disgusting/ weakness."

Stilling her body, and ignoring the cry it pulled from the man writhing beneath her, she glared at her father. "I was just having a bit of fun. It's not as if I'm /actually/ attached to him."

"Good." He said earnestly, as though it was a legitimate relief. "Come then." He strode from the room, holding the door open expectantly.

Mary hesitated, leaning forward to whisper a horrid promise in John's ear. "We'll continue this later my pet." And then her body was gone. His body shuddered in anguish and relief as the door closed, shutting him in darkness once again.


	5. I Stand Alone

After eight hours of fighting the wind whipping around him, helicopters flying up with cameras trying to get the scoop on the man on the tower, and his sleepless night before, Sherlock was furious and exhausted. He had been careful to keep his face hidden, and Mycroft's men seemed to be managing to keep everyone out, so they'd managed to keep the public outcry to a minimum. Unfortunately, with eight hours to himself he had plenty of time to think about everything going on. Finally a text came from John's mobile making him cry out in relief.

_Good Job Sherlock my boy! I'll send you your next challenge in the morning!_

On shaky legs, he made his way back inside the clocktower. Once he was back on solid ground, the breath whooshed out of him, and for a moment he dropped to his knees, just letting himself calm and regroup before straightening his shirt and heading back down the maintenance stairs. When he emerged out on the street, he grabbed the first lackey he could find, and demanded to see his brother.

"I know he's here." he said sharply, "Take me to see Mycroft! Now!" The man hesitated, but when Sherlock shouted at him again, he spoke into his radio and soon was escorted to a small area near the building that had been cleared of other people. Mycroft was directing his lackeys, keeping the media at bay, and shouting into his telephone for Greg to kindly hurry the hell up. When he was in range he snatched the phone from his brother and ended the call.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft snapped, staring at his brother incredulously. He continued in a measured tone, an attempt to keep the situation calm. "You're acting irrationally. Give me back my phone and come back with me to the estate. We can plan our next move there."

"No, I will not!" Sherlock exclaimed throwing the expensive phone on the ground harshly, hearing the screen shatter made him feel a bit better, "I told you not to interfere! John is being drugged and your intervention may very well have gotten him raped or worse... I had to watch-"

Suddenly a sharp crack filled the air, and the detective's head snapped to the side, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth where he'd bitten his lip mid speech as his brother slapped him, hard.

"Sherlock Holmes you will calm down and let me help you." Mycroft's calm demeanour vanished, leaving an icy semblance of himself. Sherlock wasn't listening to his tone as he grabbed the older man's lapels, shaking him furiously.

"I WILL NOT CALM DOWN." He roared, "JOHN IS IN DANGER AND YOU WANT ME TO CALM DOWN." He was screaming, ignoring Mycroft's attempts to placate him.

"JOHN COULD BE DEAD RIGHT NOW OR WORSE BECAUSE YOU WOULDN'T KEEP YOUR GODDAMNED NOSE OUT IF IT." Embarrassing prickles were starting to form behind his eyes, and vaguely he felt someone tugging at his collar, but he was in a rage and couldn't let go of his brother. With a harsh tug he was pulled backwards, his grip on Mycroft's jacket slipping, and Lestrade filled his vision, growling for him to stop being such a ponce and listen.

"Sherlock what do you think you are accomplishing by fighting us? We're only trying to help." He was already more than angry at the younger man for the way he was treating his brother after all the help he'd been giving him, and his fuse was short. Sherlock was flailing in his grasp, and the Detective Inspector managed to catch one fist before the other connected with his jaw. That was the last straw on his tolerance for Sherlock's attitude and 'higher than thou' mindset. In a flash he landed his own punch against the smaller man's sharp cheekbone, and reared back for another closer to that arrogant mouth. He'd landed two more against the no longer fighting Holmes before a gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him. Mycroft.

He dropped Sherlock like he was burning him and took a few steps back. Everyone's nerves were running high, and he had just been the first one to really snap. Holding his hands up as if in surrender, he backed away a few more steps and let the elder Holmes go to his younger brother. Sherlock however shoved him away and stood up on his own, wiping away the blood dripping down his chin from a busted lip. One eye was already swelling, and he glared at the two of them with no sense of the hurt they both knew the detective was feeling, only with an intense burning fury.

"Do not follow me. There is no more help you can give me. I have resolved myself to what must be done, and you two are no longer a part of the plan."

"Sherlock you can't mean-" The older detective started, but the other cut him off quickly.

"I will kill Moriarty... and the Moran girl if I can. They need to be punished for what they have done to two innocent people and their significant others, but they deserve to die for what they've done to John."

"Sherlock, you know I can't knowingly let you do that. You help me on cases, you help me catch murderers. I can't let you become one of them." Lestrade looked serious and his eyes were pleading with the younger man to stop the nonsense he was spewing.

"I don't care anymore Lestrade. Do you even understand what is going through my mind right now? I'd never tell him, but the moment John Hamish Watson stepped into my life, he changed the way I lived, he made me better. I had clarity in a chaotic world. The three years I spent alone made me realize just how important he had become to me. You have sentiment I do not, what would you do if it were Mycroft and you were in my position?"

Lestrade shook his head, "You can't ask me that. I wouldn't run off and kill them, I would help the police search, and do whatever I could without trying to kill myself in the process."

"I will not sit by like the victim's families in the murders I solve and just wait for John's body to show up on our doorstep! You have no further use to me." he snarled before turning on his heel and heading into the crowd.

"Sherlock, Stop." Lestrade called, Mycroft beside him stood close enough that their shoulders touched, wanting to run out and stop his brother but knowing it would only prove disastrous. Sherlock didn't stop and the silver headed DI pulled his gun from it's holster beneath his trenchcoat. The elder Holmes let a shaky hand rest on the opposite shoulder as the handgun was leveled on his brother, "Sherlock if you don't stop I'll be forced to shoot, I can't let you do this. God Damnit, I can't let you run off on your own. Not as a police officer, but more importantly, I can't let you as your friend. Now come back here and let us help you. You just can't do this alone..."

The younger Holmes stopped, a handful of paces away. Slowly he turned and took the few steps back until he was just outside of Lestrade's arm length. The DI started to lower the gun in relief, but Sherlock's hand shot out, grabbing him around the wrist and forcing him to press the barrel of the cool weapon against his pale forehead. Lestrade's hand shook as his eyes widened, and he tried to pull away, but the Detective had a death grip around his wrist. He was also fearful of his finger trapped on the trigger by his hand. Mycroft's hand tightened on his shoulder, and both men's attention was sharply focused on the younger man before them.

"I will find Moriarty, I will kill him and take pleasure in the light fading from his eyes. Whether I save John or not, this is a promise. So the next time you point this gun at me, you'd better be prepared to pull the bloody trigger. If I can not save John, I'll do it myself." Lestrade's hand was released, and in the moment it took him to blink, Sherlock was disappearing into the crowd, pulling his hood up and slumping his shoulders.

Lestrade watched him go, his hand falling to his side, his entire body trembling now, "Do you think he'll do it?" he asked, slowly putting his pistol back in the holster.

"My brother is a high functioning sociopath that has become dependent upon his relationship with John Watson. The last three years were hell on him, but he knew someday he could come back. Now, he faces losing the only thing he has come to care about. Greg... With that information in mind," Mycroft turned to face the other man, his eyes haunted, "You tell me."

Sherlock had meant every word. John had somehow worked his way into his life and burrowed himself deep into the heart detective always claimed he didn't have. John made him care if he was being 'not good' or if he was hurting others, he'd become like a light in the darkness of Sherlock's lonely world, and that light was in danger of being snuffed out.

In a few precious hours, he had amassed a group of his old homeless network contacts by leaving messages all over London in spray paint on walls in code to tell them when they were meeting and where. However, Sherlock cursed at his wasted efforts when there was no information for him. With promises that they would keep their eyes and ears open for any new information his now diminished network dispersed, leaving the detective with no leads whatsoever. .

After the explosive argument with Mycroft earlier, Sherlock didn't think it was smart to return to Baker street, so he made his way to the lab at Barts instead. With nothing to test, he sat in a chair frantically racing through his mind. Occasionally he would get a thought and type on the computer before growling and returning to his perch in the corner. A few hours passed and Molly joined him, coming over and smoothing a hand over his shoulder cautiously.

"Greg texted me and told me what happened Sherlock. I'm so sorry."

"While your sentiment is appreciated Molly, it does not help."

"Greg also told me you're trying to distance yourself from everyone. Just know that if there's anything you need, just let me know alright? How about some coffee. Two sugars?" Sherlock looked up once more, and really saw Molly, even better than he had when he's asked for her help in his charade.

No longer was she the blushing girl who fawned over him and took his harsh statements without questions, she was a stronger woman and he was sure her boyfriend Derek was a big part of that. Letting his hand cover hers softly, he nodded in agreement.

"Coffee would be nice Molly. I believe I have a long night ahead of me."


	6. Nightmare

Sherlock had been in and out of awareness for several hours, going deep into his mind palace and resurfacing every time he thought of it. He had just pulled himself out of his mind palace to do an assessment of his limbs, and move a little to keep them from growing stiff, when his phone chimed with his message tone. It was a video from John's mobile. He pressed play, and sat forward to watch it.

At first the video showed only an abandoned storage area, and the picture was shaking, like someone was walking with the camera in hand. The picture stayed there for a moment, and Sherlock heard a soft announcement made from somewhere in the distance and suddenly the camera was turned back around, and the video feed was full of the girl, Mary's face.

"You have an hour and a half to figure out where this is, or it'll be bad for Johnny boy." She ended it with a bright giggle.

Sherlock smiled, he knew exactly where this was, and pulling on his jacket, he headed out of the laboratory and out to catch a cab. It didn't take the detective any longer than an hour to prepare and arrive at the abandoned storage facility.

The large garage door was halfway open and clicking on the flashlight in his hand, he stooped down to maneuver under the door and into the darkened building. His light reflected off of a mirror straight ahead of him as he stood, and further investigation showed it was a panel of mirrored glass roughly two and half meters high. between each panel was a metal structure that they were attached to, forming a wall from the mirrors, similar to a funhouse mirror maze.

Sherlock was just about to round a corner carefully when a set of lights both behind the panels, and underneath, making it hard to distinguish which way was a mirror or a passage further into the maze. Moriarty knew he was here. Slowly, he began picking his way through the maze, positive that this maze could not be the real challenge. As he made his way his heartbeat began pounding deafeningly in his ears. Something was off, and he had just begun searching for the reason why when he heard it, the sound of an electric drill.

"Sh-Sherlock!" came a strangled and frightened voice. John! The whir of the drill became a higher pitch as the speed was increased, and suddenly a blood curdling scream filled the air. His heart began thudding out of his chest, his breath coming in short gasps as he took off at a sprint, hands out in front of him to warn him of an impending wall. His vision felt blurry, and his anxiety was causing his hands to tremble as he desperately searched for the next turn to take. He was in such a frenzied state that he didn't see the trip wire until the pressure tugged against his shin. A small explosion from both sides sent the now shattered glass of the walls straight into him. Thankfully the heavy leather of his jacket kept the larger shards from penetrating his torso, but his legs and face took several cuts as he dove forward, out of the blast. When he turned to look behind him, heavy steel walls lay behind the mirrored glass. No use trying to go around the maze then.

"SHERLOCK!" John's voice was wavering as if he were holding back his emotion and trying to stay strong, "Help! PLEASE!" The drill stopped and the sound of a knife exiting a sheath pierced through the heavy air. The detective forced himself to his feet pulling a large piece of glass out of his thigh. It wasn't deep but it bled weakly as he pushed onwards, keeping a lookout for more trip wires. He had avoided a few more, and was making his way forward as quickly as he could, when suddenly a panel gave way beneath his step. Six gunshots sounded and Sherlock toppled forward clutching his outer thigh. It was by sheer luck that he'd been closer to the wall instead of in the center of the path. If he had been the bullets would have pierced an artery and he could have bled out. However, it had passed clean through the tissue, and was only bleeding weakly. He grit back a cry of pain, and ripped a portion of his shirt for a makeshift bandage, and removed his belt to create a tourniquet. Breathing heavily through his nose, he felt a trickle of blood and sweat roll down his face, burning in the cuts across his cheekbones.

He took one moment to suppress the part of his brain that was sending the pain messages to his limb. It didn't fade completely but it helped in a pinch, and soon he was on his feet again. He traversed much slower now, both blood loss and caution taking it's toll. However, the longer he took, the louder and more desperate John's cries became. The steady rushing beat of his heart was pounding out the words find John find John find John so hard, he was sure it would be tattooed on his chest before this ordeal was over. Although all his body wanted was to run and hurry, he knew he would be no good to John if he obtained any more injuries, so he forced himself to remain calm. Normally the state of calm was not hard to come by, but his worry for John was causing a panic he'd not felt very often before. His worries were made worse by the lights dimming the further he traversed into the maze.

The journey was slow and arduous, intensified by the piercing cries of his best friend and the blood dripping from his upper thigh. After a long while of traversing blindly save for the beam of his flashlight, not really sure if he was getting much closer or farther away as the sounds of John rose and fell no matter which way he was going, he let out a soft exhale as the pathway changed. It ended abruptly, and the detective almost panicked until he turned his light lower and found that the only way forward was through a crawlspace not much bigger than he was on his hands and knees. There was no way that this change meant anything good except that he was closer to John.

Lowering himself to his hands and knees, he placed the small flashlight between his teeth and began to crawl. A few meters down the tunnel, he was squeezing his body through a tight space, and the flashlight slipped from his lips, landing face down, and busting the bulb. He'd be blind from here on out. Taking a deep breath, the detective pressed onwards, crawling slowly and carefully until his hand landed on something sharp, and he yelped at the unexpected slice to his hand. He could feel blood pooling in it, and pulling out his phone, he shone it down the narrow space. Mixed into the concrete were pieces of glass, all sticking up, razor sharp and waiting for him to crawl onward. Sherlock let out a cry of despair and wanted to punch something. This was for John, all for the blonde doctor, and no matter what he was faced with he knew John had faced worse and was still facing worse as he sat here going on about his misfortunes. Pulling his sleeves down, he replaced the phone that he would not be able to carry in his breast pocket, and balled the leather beneath his hands.

Crawling forward, he forced himself to remain quiet even as the glass sliced through his coat and jeans. Keeping his knees and hands low so he didn't place them on top of any big pieces, he slowly moved forward, breaking some of the taller ones with his movement. After what felt like an eternity, a light began filtering through the tunnel, and it became easier to maneuver around the glass, and another few meters from the exit, the glass stopped. The light was so bright after so long in the darkness, Sherlock couldn't see anything as he pulled himself out into the open air, but he was on his feet quick, ready to defend himself if he needed to. He heard nothing but John's tortured cries, and when his eyes finally adjusted to the brightness, he fell to his knees.

There in the center of the clearing on the complete other side of the storage building, was a table, and on it was only three things. A timer that was stuck on one minute, a laptop in which the screen had gone black, John's tortured voice coming through the speakers, and an apple in which "I.O.U" had been carved.

"Oh Sherly, you didn't honestly think it would be that easy did you?" Came Moriarty's teasing tone. John's cries had subsided to whimpers now, and Sherlock felt like keeling over and dying right there. How had he not known that John's voice was distorted by speakers? How could he not hear it?

"Oh you mustn't think you're totally to blame. You see I perfected the lovely H.O.U.N.D. compound. It's odorless and tasteless, you don't even know you're breathing it in. How much do you think it will sell for hmmm?" His hideous cackle filled the room, and Sherlock was on his feet, limping to the computer. When he touched the mouse pad, it came to life, showing Moriarty standing behind John, who was blindfolded and tied to a chair. He was unharmed, but there were several things laying around him, an electric drill with no bit, a dull metal knife, and several other torture devices he'd heard, thinking they'd been used on John.

"It's amazing what you can do to the human mind isn't it Sherlock? Oh my... you don't look well at all. You found some of my booby traps didn't you? Oh goodness, you'll have to be more careful. It's going to be awfully hard for you to save your beloved doctor if you're all banged up. Oh that shiner isn't from me though, did you get in a fight with dear old Mycroft? Or perhaps his lover, the Detective Inspector?" The grey haired man ran a hand down John's face.. He hated this man, worse than he'd hated anything in his life, and he was getting bested by him at every turn. Sherlock clenched his hands into fists, the blood from his cuts flowing freely and dribbling out to the floor.

"I suggest you quit running into them, or something bad will happen to them too. John may have most of your heart, but I believe they have pieces too. I would hate for something to happen while DI Lestrade is out on patrol..." His meaning was clear. He was to do this completely alone, and for Mycroft or Greg to interfere, it could mean their death. Sherlock felt his face go white as a wave of dizziness overtook him.

"I will find you." he said at last, his voice cracking and hoarse from pain and fatigue, "I will find you and you will die by my hand."

"Oh promises promises my boy. You'd better stop making ones you can't keep." John started fidgeting in the chair, and Moriarty pulled the blindfold away before plopping a heavy hand in his hair, forcing his face forward, "Looks like our time is all up, you're is just starting. You have one minute to decipher which door is safe to go through. One will set the bomb off instantly, the other will let you free. However, the bomb will go off in a minute anyway, just to discourage you from trying to go back the way you came. I'll send you the address for your next challenge if you manage to survive. Good luck Sherly!"

The screen went black, and the timer began to count down, beeping as every second ticked away. Before him was a red and blue door, on the red door, painted as if a street tagger had painted it, was the word hell, in big demonic letters. On the blue door, was painted Heaven in bright angelic lettering. It took him twenty seconds to decipher that it was a reference to his conversation with Sebastian on top of St. Barts.

'I may be on the side of the angels, but don't for one second think that I am one of them.'

There was an extra cord running to the door marked heaven, and Sherlock sprinted for the door marked hell. With fifteens seconds left he took a quick breath for luck and wrenched the door open. When no explosion came, he ran as fast as his wounded legs would take him out the door. However, he was still far too close to the building when it exploded and the shock wave knocked propelled him into the air and about ten meters away. The last thing he remembered before the darkness claimed him was a rain of fire coming down around him, and the thought that John was going to be very cross with him for not taking better care of his wounds.


	7. Everybody Hurts

It wasn't until later that John realized what had happened. He'd been drugged, once again, but this time it was different. It wasn't the mind numbing cold of the devils breath this time, no. In fact he hadn't known he was drugged until Moriarty told him later. It had been that bloody H.O.U.N.D. complex from Dartmoor.

At the time he'd been left alone in the dark the entire night. He had no idea what was happening with Sherlock, and he wasn't even sure if he slept. His nightmares seemed to seep into the corners of his prison, making it impossible to separate reality from his dreams.

He realized they must have pumped the drug through the room later on in the morning, before Moriarty joined him. The drug coursing through his veins was making his head pound, and he wanted nothing more than to rip Moriarty apart. Piece by piece. He'd lunged toward the older man, head first, only to be thrown back to the ground in one swift movement.

"You will do as you're told or Sherlock will pay for it." He growled, leering over John and snapping, "Get up and go sit."

The chair from the day before was still there in the center of the room, and John hurried over to it. His mind was running through all the ways he could disarm the older man, and how likely it was that Mary wouldn't intervene before he killed him. If he killed him here and now would he already have ways for Sherlock to be hurt? Or was his web honestly diminished enough that he would be nothing?

He was hardly given a chance to think about it before his arms were secured down to the chair, then his ankles, and finally a black piece of fabric was tied around his head, effectively blocking out his vision. It was quiet for some time after that, John wasn't sure how much time had passed. He heard Moriarty leave the room, but it was dark and silent, leaving his mind racing, picking sounds out of the dark.

Finally he heard Moriarty speak far too close to his ear, hot breath rolling over his neck. "Sherlock is here John. I'll let you leave with him if he can find you in time." John had just been about to ask what he was talking about. What he had done to Sherlock, when he heard the sound of a drill starting. Whirring somewhere to the side of him.

That was when he'd begun calling out to Sherlock.

In the end it all became a blur, but at the time it had seemed shockingly real. He'd hear the drill whirring and then the cold spinning metal would meet the flesh underside of his arm. Warm hot liquid rolling down the side as he screamed. It had hurt. It had been excruciating, he was sure of it, but when the blindfold had been removed and he'd been left alone once again he couldn't find a single mark on him.

He thought back, the drill, the knife. They had all been there. He'd felt them, heard them, but it had all been a trick and Sherlock had never been there either, not really anyways.

In the end John finally began to break. He could no longer fully decipher what was real and what he'd imagined. A few hours later, or what he assumed were hours, Moriarty came back through the door, setting water and bread in front of John before stepping back, looking the doctor over like he was a creature to be dissected.

"Eat." He said after a few moments of silence. "I'd hate for you to be of no use to me... well that's not quite true. If you lose your usefulness I'll simply kill you, but Sherlock will be much less amiable without you alive."

John glared up at the man but obliged. Taking a sip of water, which turned into a gulp when he realized how thirsty he was. As he picked at the bread he tried not to let on just how desperate he was for each bite, some of his fight returning now that he wasn't drugged and could see clearly.

"Good." Moriarty said simply, "Now, so you don't go completely fall apart mentally. You were drugged earlier with the H.O.U.N.D. compound. You were not harmed at all last time I was in here, but I wasn't lying about Sherlock, not completely. He could hear every blood curdling scream." The older man was smiling maniacally at this, and John found he was no longer hungry.

"Is Sherlock alright?" He couldn't remember hearing Sherlock, he had no idea what had happened.

"Yes and no." Moriarty offered, shrugging his shoulders.

"What does that mean!" John growled, preparing to lunge at the man when the opportunity arose.

"It means he didn't fare quite as well as you did. He'll live, if that's what you're worried about, but he's fairly damaged." He laughed again shaking his head. "Sherly has a small task for me on his own, should give you a bit of time to recoup. Try and get some sleep John."

John barely had time to grasp the glass cup, still partially full, and throw it at the door. Hitting the back of the door as it swung shut behind Moriarty. He growled in frustration, running his hands through his hair and pulling on it roughly, a choked sob ripping through him.

He wasn't sure this was better. Yes, at least he hadn't fully imagined everything that had happened, he'd been tricked. But knowing he had been a tool in whatever had happened to Sherlock made him feel unimaginably worse. The lights had been left on this time. Crawling to the corner of the room he let himself finally nod off, the bread, still half eaten, left in the center of the room.

Sherlock felt the tiredness in his bones. The weariness of the past two days had taken it's toll on him and he felt like someone had left a large weight on his belly. His entire body felt extremely heavy, but he was nestled in something soft. It was that thought that brought him fully back to consciousness. The lights in the room were dim, but he could still tell by the lavish decor that he was at Mycroft's estate. They must have found him after the blast and rushed him here to care for his wounds. Shifting, he found that nothing appeared to be broken, and that he had been patched up quite well. A saline IV drip was attached to his arm and he ripped it out without thought, and moved to sit up. The world swirled a little, but he regained his composure easily, and braced himself to stand. It was easier than he had first thought it would be, and the pain in his right leg from the gunshot wound was minimal. He found his phone and coat as well as fresh clothes waiting for him as if they had known he would end up waking at any moment.

As he was pulling on his clothes, he checked his phone. Nothing. He'd been out for around four hours, and there was no message or missed call to alert him to his next challenge. Heaving a heavy sigh, he collected his jacket from where it hung, still bloody and torn from the back of the chair. It had come in handy so far and it was a bit calming to have something familiar around him. He would have liked better to have his belstaff, but this would have to suffice. The hall was surprisingly deserted, and Sherlock almost allowed himself to think he was home free until he was met at the side door by Lestrade, his arms crossed, and one eyebrow raised.

"Going somewhere?" he asked.

"Out of my way." Sherlock growled hoarsely.

"Or what?" Greg asked, "You've lost quite a bit of blood and now that we've got you , knowing what you're planning, I can't let you out there again."

"Get out of my goddamned way Lestrade, or I will hurt you. Do not think for one second that I will hold back." His phone went off then, and he chanced a quick peek, seeing an address on the screen.

"That's him isn't it? You know I can't let you go."

"If you don't you'll be putting Mycroft and yourself in danger as well." He snarled, but it came out weaker than he had intended, "He made a threat on your lives if I didn't get you to leave me to my task. This is me asking nicely. Back. Off. Otherwise I will be forced to break your legs Detective Inspector."

Greg looked pale, and Sherlock felt like he might have actually gotten through to him. Could he dare to hope that the older man would be on his side?

"Do you think he'd actually hurt My?" Came the soft, expected question.

"There is no doubt in my mind. The only way to help him is to keep him from finding me. Can you help me with that?"

The silver headed man swallowed roughly before stepping to the side, clearing the doorway he'd previously been blocking with his body, "I can try." As sherlock moved past him, the older man grabbed him by the arm, his fingers almost painfully tight. Two more text alerts sounded, one right after the other, but he ignored them for the moment as he turned to look into the kind eyes of the first man that had ever truly believed in him. Before he'd met John, before he'd gotten off the drugs, this man had believed in the junkie that had only been a shell of his true self. He saw that same trust now in his warm gaze, and Sherlock swallowed against the tightness in his throat.

"I thought about what you asked me. When you asked me what I would do, if it were me... if Mycroft were..." He stopped, clearing his throat when it cracked with emotion, "You go get that son of a bitch. You do whatever you have to do, and we'll find a way to cover up your involvement when you get back. I'm sure I'll be the head of the investigation, as long as you keep your face out of the papers, we should be fine."

He released the detective, and motioned for him to go. Sherlock gave him one swift and resounding nod before disappearing out the door, leaving Greg to watch after, hoping to God he'd made the right decision.

Once he'd made it out the gates, surprisingly easier than he'd thought it would be, Sherlock ducked into the nearest alley and stopped to read the text messages he'd received. The first was as he thought, an address in a private community, and a very wealthy part of London. The next was only two words. Kill her. They made his stomach roil and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. But it was the final text message that sent him sagging into the brick wall behind him. It was a photo of his intended target.

Familiar dark curls were pinned atop her head, chin held high with her typical proud demeanor. Irene Adler. He had saved her life more than once, and now he was being forced to take it away. He couldn't do it. He had to do it. A soft haunted noise slipped from his lips as he pushed himself to stand once more.

Shaking himself visibly, he set off in the direction of 221b Baker Street. He would be needing John's gun.


	8. Don't Fear the Reaper

TRIGGER WARNING: Major character death... by the hands of another major character. If you want the cliffnotes just scroll to the bottom.

It hadn't been her best move, returning to London, but she never was one to tread carefully. Plus all of her connections were here, she had nothing in the states. It had taken a while to build back her client base, but she had, and a lot more subtly than last time.

She had been out with a particularly private client, and was glad to be home for the evening. Her key stuck a little more than normal as she pushed her way through the door to her small, one bedroom flat. Something wasn't right, but it wasn't as if she had anywhere else to go, or anyone to call for help, so she stepped inside definitely, scanning the room quickly for disturbances. She didn't see anything.

Closing the door softly she ventured further into the flat, her senses running on overdrive. Suddenly the smell of nicotine and the dirty London winds whipped around her as a dark figure wrapped one hand around her mouth, the other pressing the cold barrel of a pistol up to her temple.

"I thought we might have dinner." Came his soft voice. He knew she'd recognize him instantly. He felt her body relax into his like it was some sort of game, or a joke they'd play on each other, and that made him feel even worse with what he was about to do. His fingers gripped her face hard where they covered her mouth and he felt himself slipping more and more into hatred of himself as each silent second ticked by.

"I actually have something I need to talk to you about..." his voice was sad, and it wavered with his unspoken emotions.

Irene had heard of Sherlock's jump of course, but she hadn't been so quick to believe he was actually dead. He'd proven time and time again he could fool even his own brother into thinking someone was dead. There had been the issue of John. She couldn't imagine what would make him leave John like that, goodness knows the army doctor couldn't act to save his life, obviously he had been fooled by the jump.

Even if she'd had a way to contact Sherlock, she wouldn't have. She didn't understand what had led him to find her in the first place.

Bringing her hands up she grabbed at the large hand pressed against her face. She wasn't too worried about the cold metal pressed into her temple at the moment. She nipped at the inside of his hand gently, as if to say, we can't talk like this.

He let her hands pull his away from her mouth only far enough so that it encircled the base of her neck, palm resting against the hollow between her collar bones, keeping her flush against his body. She smelled like sex and heavy French perfume, and it all went to his head like things often did with her. He had to steel himself if he was going to do this.

"I know you think I'm cross that you hadn't told me you were back in London, the truth is I've only been back a little over a week myself. I've been otherwise preoccupied or I would have found out sooner or later, but I'm afraid this isn't just a social visit." He bowed his head a little, resting it atop hers. In her heels she was almost as tall as he was, strong and confident, but he knew better.

"It's 's come back, the real one, and he's taken John hostage. He's told me to keep him alive... To keep him safe I have to..." He couldn't finish. She was smart, he knew she would figure it out.

She was silent for a moment, one thumb rubbing small circles into the back of his hand. She knew he didn't want this, her clock had just run out. Pressing back against his body she let him know she wasn't going to run.

"How long has he had John?" What she was really asking was how desperate are you? Her voice was steady, no reason to get upset, it wouldn't change the outcome.

"About fifty-two hours." He replied. The number sounded so small and insignificant compared to the hell he'd been through in that time. "He's using Devil's Breath on him. Making him do things he wouldn't normally do... Irene... I should have been there for him... Protected him, but I'd just thought he needed time to think. This wasn't supposed to happen." After the past few days just releasing all the pent up tension by explaining things to the woman made his shoulders relax a bit.

"Moriarty is going to kill me one way or another before this is all over... I feel like I'm going mad..." His hand holding the gun was starting to shake but the calming circles she was drawing on his bandaged hand kept him grounded just enough to keep him sane.

"It's so odd for me not to know what to do but, I feel like a blind man being led through the dark here, and each obstacle is worse than the last..."

His voice cracked, and she could feel the metal moving slightly. He needed John. Irene knew that better than anyone. "You've made it this far, it can't get much worse. Deaths been chasing me for too long anyhow" Her right hand moved to cover his, steadying the weapon.

"You'll get him back Sherlock. You can't let Moriarty win.." Her breath hitched for a moment, "Don't let me die in vain."

"I won't let him win. I can't." He shook his head and felt the pricking behind his eyes start to become unbearable. He hadn't been able to let her die before, and now he had to kill her.

"I examined every possibility but I can't figure out a way to fake this one... I'm sorry that we won't get to have that dinner after all. Will you save me a seat in hell?" He gave a soft chuckle that sounded a little more like a cough than a sound of mirth.

"Oh dear... You really don't see how wonderful you are do you?" She paused, letting him think about that. "I suspect I'll be dining alone, but you won't. You and John make it through this and you are sure to have a place saved for you in heaven." She smiled softly at the thought. Irene was not a religious woman, but if anyone deserved a peaceful death it was the two of them. Leaning her head back so it rested against his chest she whispered, almost to herself. "The guardian angels of London."

"John's a lucky man. I'd be jealous, but I never really was competition was I?" Laying her left hand over his, she continued a little softer. She didn't want to die, but she wasn't scared either. "I've come to terms with my demons. I'm ready to face them, but... Could I ask for one last request?"

"What kind of executioner would I be if I didn't grant you one last request?" He grit his teeth and lifted his head finally from hers, telling himself he couldn't let this cause his resolve to falter. Not now. John was still in trouble, he needed the detective to have a clear head. If only he could find the emotionless serenity he'd had before he'd met the doctor, but it seemed like unlocking his sentiment had forever damaged the dam between Sherlock and emotions. He wondered if he'd ever get used to the foreign things.

"Tell me Ms. Adler... what can the world's only consulting detective do for you?"

"Kiss me."

She spoke strong and defiant. Her chin pressed forward, her hands still lying over the detectives. "My hearts been yours since before I met you. I don't mind that my level of sentiment is unrequited, in fact I understand. You and John... Well if you don't set things right when you find him I'll never forgive you." She took a breath, her voice finally began to quiver as she continued. "I just want that to be my final memory. I want to be happy. Can you do that for me?"

The request struck him as odd at first, but as the seconds ticked by and the wheels turned in his head he realized it was not so farfetched or unreasonable. Moving the gun away from her head, the arm that was draped across her shoulder, circling her throat gripped her left shoulder and turned her so that she was facing him. He knew he looked different than she remembered, dressing much more casual, his shorter hair and scruffy, dirty face. The swollen eye and multiple scratches marring his haunted expression, but as he looked down into her eyes, he could tell she didn't care that he looked different. He was still the Sherlock she loved, and in that moment he knew that he had to tell her.

"Irene. Had I never met John.. I want you to know that things might have been quite different..." His free hand reached up, pulling the clip that held her hair in that intricate twist, and let the long dark hair fall down her back. He tossed it to the side, and let his long fingers slip through the waves, "No, not might. They would have been. You are an intriguing woman, and the only person to truly baffle me."

That said, he tightened his fingers in the hair at the base of her neck, tilting her head back and pulling her tight against his chest. He looked at her for one long moment, his eyes begging for forgiveness he knew she'd already given him, and whispered a thank you against her lips as he slanted them over hers. The hand holding the gun slid over her hip, the curve of her back cradling the weapon almost longingly as he pressed their bodies close together.

A wetness touched his cheek and he didn't know if the tears were hers or his, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except that for that moment, however brief and just for her, he would allow himself to belong to someone other than John. She kissed him slowly, drawing out the moment.

Her hands rested softly on his shoulders, letting him pull her in and control the kiss. This was something Irene had never been able to have, something only Sherlock could give to her. She waited as long as she could, trying to memorize the moment so she could hold onto it through whatever waited for her on the other side. Finally, she let her left hand trail down the detectives arm, catching his hand in hers. In an instant she had wrapped her fingers over Sherlock's and pulled the gun to her temple, using her other hand to keep him pulled close to her. Opening her eyes, seeing the shock and fear in the detective's eyes she kissed him again, softly, as if to say, 'It'll all be okay, trust me.' Then her eyes fell shut as she pushed Sherlock's finger down against the trigger. It was easier than she had expected.

Instantly her hand fell limply from Sherlock's as she slumped against his body.

The gun slipped from numb fingers as his arm went around her waist and his knees buckled. The two of them crumpled to the floor together, and blood gushed down her side and back coating his hands and staining his shirt. His mouth opened and closed a few times, before he pulled her lifeless body to his chest once more. Her head flopped sickly onto his shoulder as his fingers moved back up into her curls holding her to him.

Rocking back and forth he pressed his face into her hair, eyes shut against the pain and hatred welling up inside of him. She didn't have to die. He'd protected her before and now the great Sherlock Holmes had failed her. He whispered softly to her, as if somehow he could ease her passing even though she was already gone.

He'd never been overly religious, but he silently prayed to whoever was listening, hell even Irene, asking for John to be kept safe until he could get to him.

"Please..." He said, voice cracking with emotion, "watch over him for me..," he kissed her head then stood, his body shaky as he reached for the gun. Bloody fingers slipped into his pocket and typed out a short message to Lestrade as he left, locking the door behind him.

_446 Amherst Lane_

_Clean up crew needed at once -SH_

Cliffnotes: Sherlock had to kill Irene. He went to her apartment. She let him/helped him kill her, but she had a final request, a kiss. So they kissed, Sherlock told her had he not had John things would have been different between them. It was... sad... yeah.. So. Onward. 3


	9. Black Widow

The TV in front of him snapped off as Sherlock walked out of the room. Up until now John had thought Irene to be dead, Mycroft had assured him. Of course he had said it would take Sherlock Holmes to fool him, maybe he had.

Moriarty and Mary had refused to give him any information as they drug in the television on one of those old gray carts, the sort they used in primary schools. Mary purposefully averted her eyes, perhaps she had been reprimanded for everything that had happened while John was drugged, he still couldn't remember everything, and part of him was glad he didn't.

Gears turned quickly, trying to comprehend what he had just seen. Irene was alive, or had been.. Had Sherlock saved her, or did Mycroft lie to John? Why would he lie about her death again, it wasn't like that would serve any purpose. So Sherlock saved her, definitely, but now he had killed her. Well, intended on killing her would be the more apt term John supposed. Irene put the gun back to her head though, she was ready to die for this.

Why had he kissed her? A familiar pang of jealousy had ran through him as he'd watched Sherlock touch the woman so tenderly, so passionately. What he would have given to hear the conversation that had gone on between them. That bitter feeling had dissipated quickly when the fiction of the weapon pressed to her temple, his weapon, had become reality. Later, he would lament on the fact that Sherlock had lied to him, had known she was alive this entire time, how intimately he'd touched her. Another lie to add to the list, but currently he was trying to process what he had just real issue here was why had Sherlock saved her only to kill her, and why did Moriarty want John to see it.

Sherlock would have already worked it out.

John figured it was safe to assume Moriarty forced Sherlock to kill Irene. John wondered what all Sherlock had been forced to do in his name, the thought frightened him. Before, Moriarty had been set on ruining Sherlock's reputation, that may still be his game.

John hung his head forward, cradling it in his arms. He was sitting against the back wall of the small dark room, his knees pulled up with his arms draped across him. He was only wearing dark jeans, his shirt had disappeared, John wasn't sure when.

With the TV off the room was only lit by one pot light in the center of the room, but even that low light made his head throb painfully. Moriarty seemed to know exactly how little water and food John needed to stay conscious, and he was given exactly that, nothing more. He considered refusing of course, just letting himself wither away. It would have be almost too easy, but he knew it would affect Sherlock. Between the malnutrition, dehydration, and the hangover from everything that had been forcibly administered to him, John could barely even stand.

Finally Moriarty entered the room again. John didn't bother to lift his head, he could hear heavy footfalls leading up to him. Moriarty was right in front of him when he crouched down on the balls of his feet, pulling John's head up by his hair once more. John still glared up at the older man, but didn't try and pull away, he'd learned it wouldn't do him much good.

"I told you I own you." His voice was level, no hint of anger or mirth. "I own you, and by owning you I own Sherlock."

So that was his game, a bloody power play.

"I suggest you get some sleep doctor. Tomorrow I'm going to show you just how much control I have over both of you." The corners of his mouth turned up in an evil grin before dropping John's head and standing to turn and leave the room. "Ta Doctor Watson." he laughed maniacally as he called over his shoulder, closing John in the dark room once more.

The night was long and painful. Memories haunted his dreams, pulling him from sleep into his real nightmare. By the time Moriarty opened the door again he had only managed an hour or two of sleep. John allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, and drug out of the room. The hall outside was cemented all the way around with no windows, they must have been in some sort of underground bunker. He was led into another room, smaller than the one he had been in for the past three nights.

Moriarty let go of him suddenly, causing John to sway slightly. In front of him there was a table with a computer screen, facing away from the doorway, and one chair behind it. Jerking his head toward the chair Moriarty glared pointedly at John. He moved to sit down, what else could he do?

"Oh god." he breathed the words out softly as he saw what was on the screen. Sherlock was in a similar looking room, somewhere underground or secured presumably by the concrete walls, and Mary was standing behind him. The detective had cuts on his face that had busted open again, blood running in little rivulets. His eye was still swollen from where Lestrade had punched him, and his lips were chapped, the split painful and bleeding. Both hands were bandaged around his palms, and his jacket was torn in places around the sleeves. Blood spotted his shirt and hands from where he'd held onto Irene's body, only flecks of it left as if he'd tried to wash it away. The ginger hair on his head was tangled and windblown, looking as if it hadn't seen a brush in days. The video John had been watching the night before had been shot from too far away,likely from a hidden camera. He hadn't seen just how bad Sherlock was doing.

Blood was seeping through his jeans where he'd reopened the gunshot wound, his eyes had dark circles under them and his cheeks were gaunt. His face was set in a surly expression and Mary's nails were digging into his shoulder in a painful looking way, her nails digging into the socket.

However when Sherlock saw John, his face lit up a bit to see him physically unharmed, even if he did look a little bit groggy.

"John?" Sherlock winced at the raspiness of his own voice. It sounded like nails on a chalkboard to his ears, but he couldn't contain his worry for the doctor. Moriarty was on the screen as well and Sherlock found his scowl returning as quickly as it had left.

"Sher-" John started before Moriarty slunk behind him, one hand wrapping around to cover his mouth, his nails biting into John's cheek.

"That's enough chit chat don't you think?" Moriarty sneered as he crouched so his head was resting just above John's shoulder, staring at Sherlock through the webcam. "You see John, our beloved detective thought that he was going to skip my games and come rescue you. Tricking him was all too easy really. Of course she led him to a bunker, much like mine, but then, not so very like mine." He chucked manically. "Not really anyways, because I wasn't there, and neither were you Johnny." His laughter became uncontrollable and his hand slipped from John's mouth as he stood, his hands resting on the back of the chair. "Oh Sherlock, you're getting awfully sloppy, are you getting tired?" He shook his head in mock disappointment before continuing. "The best part is, Mary doesn't have to do anything to keep you there does she? You're free to go whenever you like, but I promise if you do, you'll never get John back. No one will." The silence rang out with his final statement.

"Now boys." The laughter had finally faded from his voice, only to be replaced by an eagerness that was even more frightening. "Are you ready to play?"

John swallowed hard, anticipation and fear buzzing through his mind. "You don't have to do this Sherlock. He's never gonna stop." Leave me to die.

Sherlock shot John a look that clearly said over my dead body. Clearing his throat he steepled his fingers together, resting them on his lips as his eyes narrowed.

"You realize at some point this game has to come to a climax, every game and puzzle does. So far everything has been rather dull, for your level of intellect anyway..." For a moment Sherlock considered adding a sneered father at the end, but decided in no way, shape, or form did he want to claim this man as family.

"I rather wonder if you're losing your touch." He smirked a little, his face giving away nothing of the emotions roiling in his belly, "Alas carry on with it then..." He winced inwardly as nails were dug deeper into his shoulder.

"Watch your snarky mouth you tosser." Mary snarled.

"Oh do let the little courageous act drop. I can feel you shaking. You know the only thing keeping you alive right now is the fact that John is in danger and your life in my hands is not worth near as much as his..."

Mary blanched and removed her hand, taking a step back before her mask slid back into place. She frowned and crossed her arms, waiting instead for her fathers games to begin.

"Enough Mary. He's there of his own free will, he can act how he likes, it will just affect Doctor Watson." Moriarty smiled wickedly at Sherlock. "We'll see how you feel about my games after this one."

Moriarty then disappeared from the view of the camera to a small cabinet in the corner of the room. John couldn't see what he was getting at, and didn't dare move. He returned shortly with a scalpel, the sort used in surgeries. It would take barely any pressure to cut through skin, muscle, and connective tissues with that tool. John's eyes widened when he saw it, but gave no other visible response. Sherlock didn't miss the small reaction of course, but his own questions were soon answered when Moriarty stepped back into the frame.

He spun the tool between his fingers carelessly. "You'd do well to keep your snarky attitude to yourself if you don't want your poor doctor here cut up… I do think he'll have to pay for that remark though, very rude of you." Moriarty chuckled as he pressed his palm over Johns throat, pushing his head back into the chair as he ran the blade across his skin just soft enough that it left a white trail down his cheek. Johns chest heaved dangerously as he tried not to struggle. "Here's the real fun part though. Sherlock. You get to choose where I cut him. And if you don't I'll just keep cutting and cutting him up where ever I feel like it until I feel like stopping... " He traced the back of the scalpel down the side of John's face, then down his throat as if to prove where he would start.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as his brain quickly flicked through all of the major arteries to stay away from. How could he have gotten John into this? Because no matter what happened, no matter what Moriarty did to him, this was all Sherlock's fault, and he would never forgive himself for it.

"The top of his right forearm." His voice was low and dangerous. His doctor was left handed, and he wouldn't risk permanently damaging his dominant hand.

Moriarty's lips quirked to the side. "Dull." John winced at how similar he sounded to Sherlock in that moment, but before he had a chance to fully register what was happening he felt the cold metal digging into his arm. He bit back a cry as he drew in a sharp breath. Moriarty kept John's head drawn back so he couldn't see, but he could feel as the blade was drawn from about two inches above his wrist up to the crook of his elbow. He could feel blood spilling out over his arm. The cut was deep, but not too deep. He could move his fingers, so no serious muscle damage at least.

John's head fell forward as Moriarty finally released him, the bloody scalpel was dropped on the table in front of him. He no longer felt disconnected, the sharp pain emanating from his arm put all his senses on alert. Chancing a look down at his arm he saw it was split open cleanly. Having nothing to hold the deep cut closed with he grabbed his forearm with the opposite hand, putting as much pressure as he could manage through the pain. Sweat was quickly growing on his brow as he looked back at Sherlock through the camera. He grimaced painfully, trying to show that he was still okay.

Sherlock tried, damnit, he tried hard to hide the pain on his face and in his eyes, and for once he wasn't sure if he succeeded. John looked at him once the cut was made, and he could tell there wouldn't be any long lasting damage, a scar at the most. His brows drew together as he watched the blood bubbling over the edge of the laceration on his arm.

This was his fault. He was still treating this man like his son Sebastian. Everyone would do better if he didn't underestimate this madman.

"Alright boys. No time to stall. The way this game works, I will ask you a question and you will answer. Now, John. Pick a number, one or two." He ran his fingers through John's hair harshly. He seemed disgusted by the sensation, only doing it to anger Sherlock.

John hesitated for a moment. He couldn't be sure what his choice would cause. If the intensity of the next bit of torture was determined by this number he should choose one, right? But then it could also be two different acts altogether, Moriarty would probably be expecting John to pick one. He bit down on his bottom lip sharply before making his decision.

"Two." John spoke softly, unsure of what he had just caused.

"Perfect choice doctor. Now Sherlock. I need two finger nails, who shall I be taking them from?" His smile grew horribly as he put the decision in Sherlock's hands. "I could always take one from each of you of course."

"No, take them from me." He laid his left hand on the table flat. He stared Moriarty down, not wanting him to think he was afraid. The torture of watching John get hurt was much worse than getting hurt himself. He'd learned to block out the pain however he could while he'd been weeding out the cohorts of Moriarty's web.

John closed his eyes for a moment, wanting to argue, but also knowing full well it was useless. Just as it had been impossible for John to choose to cause harm to Sherlock, he knew there was no way Sherlock would choose for anymore harm to come to him. Opening his eyes John bit at his lip and nodded, trying to focus on Sherlock, rather than the arm throbbing painfully under his hand.

Mary moved to the cabinet in the corner and returned with a pair of pliers and some rope. Lifting his right arm, he took a mouthful of his leather coat as the insufferable woman tied his arm to the chair. He wasn't about to give Moriarty the satisfaction of hearing him scream. It would be painful. He knew it would, and he just hoped that he wouldn't pass out from the pain. His eyes met John's as Mary finished tying his bonds, a leather belt on top of the rope just to make sure he didn't squirm away, and he begged him with his eyes, to watch Sherlock's face, his eyes, or better yet, not to watch at all. He did not want the doctor to see the nails being pulled from his flesh.

Suddenly, Mary clamped down on his wrist with her hand and the middle nail on his left hand was held by the pliers. "I'm going to enjoy this..." she said happily as she began to pull the nail back.


	10. Bleeding Out

Sherlock's face screwed up in pain and his grip on his leather jacket with his teeth was tight, but he held John's eyes as long as he could. Don't look away I'm right here, help me forget the pain. His eyes conveyed his thoughts as the pain started to ebb it's way into his mind. Breath was coming shorter as sweat started to bead at his brow. He didn't dare break eye contact with John to look but it felt like Mary was about halfway through with the first nail. Saliva bubbled up from his lips when his breathing picked up, and he bared his teeth, fighting to keep from screaming. A strangled noise ripped it's way out of his chest when she ripped the entire nail from his cuticle.

He released his jacket from his teeth and slumped back into his chair as Moriarty spoke.

"Get him a rolled up rag so that he doesn't break his teeth." came his command, and Sherlock reveled in the break from the pain. His eyes never left John's, green meeting blue in a reassuring way. They'd get through this. Somehow. His chest rose and fell heavily when a rolled up cloth was pressed to his lips. He opened his mouth and took it gratefully, the feeling of his mouth being full a pleasant relief. He tested it by biting down, and found that the cushioning of it was fine.

Mary moved back to his hand, pliers in tow and settled in to begin the next. John look at me. He wanted to scream those words, for the doctor had looked away towards Mary. He wasn't sure if the other just couldn't take watching Sherlock's face anymore or if the gruesome act had captured his gaze.

He cried out as she started to pull it back, the sound muffled around the cloth. He breathed quickly through his nose, teeth gripping the cloth with a mighty force. LOOK AT ME! His mind was practically screaming as he worried on the nightmares watching this might evoke in his doctor. When John's gaze finally met his again, Sherlock's eyes softened marginally. He thrashed instinctively as the pain heightened and Mary began pulling harder. He kept John's eyes until the end, conveying one thought before the nail was pulled free and his head wrenched back with a scream of pain through his gag.

You're worth this. All of it.

Moriarty barely waited long enough for Sherlocks breathing to regulate and the cloth to fall from his mouth before moving on. Dropping a seemingly clean rag in John's lap.

"Can't have you passing out on us." Moriarty snarled as Mary dropped smaller bandages in front of Sherlock and began untying his arm from the chair.

"Now John." He began as the two quickly bandaged up the bleeding wounds as best as possible. Moriarty walked slowly to the cabinet, returning with a small bucket with a metal rod sticking out of it and ropes, similar to the ones Mary had just used on Sherlock. There was a fine mist flowing from the top of the bucket. "This is a brand, it has been chilling in dry ice, I'm sure it will feel... Rather refreshing." He set the bucket down in front of John, but looked at the camera,

"I'm sure you both understand how this game works now, or must I continue to repeat myself?" He was looking at John now, waiting for his choice.

It sounded rather horrible, an ice burn, but of course John nodded, "Yeah. Me. I choose myself."

"Good." Moriarty said heartily, "very noble choice, don't you think Sherlock. Now... Where shall I place the mark?" He didn't aim the question at either of them as his eyes danced across Johns bare skin. John simply clenched his jaw tightly, glaring at the man looming over him greedily.

"Oh don't be like that John. We'll keep things simple, just here." He traced the skin where Johns upper arm met his shoulder. In no time Moriaty had began securing him to the chair, even John figured that was for the best, he wouldn't be able to resist struggling. John caught Sherlock's gaze just as a rag was stuffed in his mouth, he bit down on it thankfully.

He gave Sherlock one last look, something he hoped looked strong, before clamping his eyes shut tight against the pain he knew was coming. Sure enough a few moments later he felt a numb icy sensation against his skin. It didn't even hurt at first, but when it did it was worse than John had imagined. He writhed in his bonds, biting down into the cloth in between his teeth as he willed himself not to cry out.

It felt like ages before the metal was peeled away, and John was sure he could hear and feel his skin sticking to the brand. He breathed deeply as the cloth was removed and he was untied. Moriarty grabbed him roughly by his left forearm pulling his body so the fresh brand was in view of the camera.

"What do you think Sher? It is permanent after all." John could see Sherlock's expression from the corner of his eye and looked away. None of this was Sherlocks fault, but that didn't matter, he would still blame himself.

Sherlock did not tear his eyes away during the whole ordeal. He watched the skin sizzle and stick to the brand and tear away. Now he looked at the mark that would forever be left in John's skin. He was surprised to see an elegant and stylized S now bleeding weakly on the man's left shoulder. The detective's narrowed eyes spurred on Moriarty's next words.

"I thought since you're so attached to him, that I'd mark your pet for you." The madman brushed his hand almost lovingly over the raw flesh. Sherlock could feel his hackles rise as a growl ripped from his throat.

"How dare you..." His uninjured hand moved up in his hair to grip at the lockes in frustration. How was he supposed to deal with this? How was he supposed to sit here and watch as the only person in the world that actually understood him, that cared for him, was hurt over and over. How long would this go on?

"You don't like it?" Moriarty seemed almost genuinely confused by this, but it was quickly replaced by mirth. "No matter." He pushed John back into the chair roughly. Nodding at Mary, who went to retrieve the next set of supplies, he continued. "It's your turn son. Do I even need to ask who you choose?"

"No. You don't." He lifted his chin defiantly and gazed down his nose at the man on the other side of the screen.

Mary placed a small glass vile with a cork top in front of Sherlock. It was full of a fine white powder. It was turned so John could see the label, but Sherlock could not. NaOH.

"Oh god," John whispered softly, shaking his head. "You can't."

Moriarty growled back at John, "I can and I will. Mary tie his hand back down, and go ahead and show him what John is so upset about."

White powder. There were so many things it could be. But this was designed for torture. Mary turned the bottle around, and the elemental name NaOH stared back at him. Lye. Mary tied his injured hand back down to the armrest on the chair. From the cabinet she retrieved a spray bottle and a large container full of what he assumed was vinegar.

"And don't let him bite down on anything, I think we'd all like to hear the great detective scream." His voice had taken a horribly dark tone. John met Sherlock with a pained expression, he'd have given anything to stop this.

Leaning down, in full view of John and keeping her eyes on his, She licked the back of Sherlock's hand, almost sensually. A throat clearing from her father quickly put an end to it, and she stood up once more, reaching for the bottle of lye. Uncorking the bottle she turned and looked down at Sherlock, but his eyes were focused on John. Almost angrily, she dumped the contents of the small bottle onto the back of his hand. It began to burn instantly, but Sherlock grit his teeth hard trying to keep it under control.

"Mary..." Came Moriarty's soft response. Mary took up the spray bottle and began spraying the white powder spread across the back of his hand and peppered over his fingers and arm. She made sure to wet it all down, then sat back, her fist on her hip, to watch him writhe.

It took almost no time for Sherlock to lose his ability to hold in his screams. He had held John's eyes trying to block it out for as long as he could. Now, his eyes wrenched shut and his head was thrown back in agony as a blood curdling scream pierced through both rooms. His hand was clenched in a fist and his entire arm was shuddering from the force of him attempting to free it.

The burn was like nothing he'd ever experienced before, and sweat broke out all over his body, only making the lye burning worse. He felt as if the sun had exploded inside his skin and was fighting it's way out. When he had no breath left, another was quickly drawn in before his cry began anew. The skin bubbled and sizzled and he gripped the chair tight with his free hand.

His breaths and cries came faster now, his chest rising and falling heavily. There were no words, only noises of misery as his eyes came to rest on John's face.

He was biting down on the inside of his lip, hard enough to draw blood. John was fighting desperately to keep his eyes on Sherlocks, to not let his gaze drop to the skin being boiled away. There was nothing John could do to stop this, and he hated Moriarty and Mary more than anything now.

Moriarty looked vaguely disappointed and somehow smug at the same time. "I think he's had enough Mary." But the woman didn't seem to be listening. She was watching Sherlock's skin burn with a maniacal glee.

"MARY!" the sharp bark startled her to look up at her father, "The vinegar." His voice was clipped. Grudgingly, she moved to take the vinegar from the table, and without washing the lye off, doused his arm with vinegar. His screams were renewed as the vinegar caused another chemical reaction, burning the raw skin once again before finally dying out.

Sherlock was practically liquid in the chair. His body was covered with sweat, and his breathing was erratic. He was still breathing, but he didn't look up. His chest rose and fell shallowly and his limbs went completely limp, even after Mary had untied his arms.

"Oh what a pity. It seems the stress of it all has been too much for him." Moriarty tsked, his fingers curling over the tops of John's shoulders, "Seems like our detective has passed out from the pain. What do you say we rouse him Mary?"

The girl nodded and retrieved a bucket of water that had been on hand for emergencies, and with a sneer tossed it upwards into Sherlock's face, making sure it went up the younger man's nose. Sherlock splutter awake and hung his head as he attempted to breathe through his abrupt awakening. When he finally had the strength, he looked back up to the doctor once more, eyes weary and dull with pain, and then they flickered to Moriarty.

"How long do you intend this to go on?" His voice was raspy as he spoke.

Moriarty raised his eyebrows, "Tiring of our little game are we?" He tutted softly, "We're almost done anyways. One more for each of you... I saved the best for last of course." He smiled manically, turning to John.

"This one is rather simple," Moriarty circled behind the chair slowly as he spoke softly, almost whispering into John's ear. "You must break one of your fingers."

John turned towards Moriarty, looking back at him incredulously. "You're mad." John stated bluntly.

"Just figuring that out now?" Moriarty chuckled, "Here's the best part. You have to break your fingers before Sherlock runs out of air." He looked back up at Sherlock, "Don't move, or I''ll break his whole wrist."

As if on cue Mary wrapped a thick plastic bag over Sherlock's head, twisting it tightly at his throat. Panic rose up in his chest, as he watched his friend desperately attempting to keep calm. Both his injured hands gripping the chair, his knuckles flushed white.

It took all of three seconds for John to grit his teeth and look away from the screen. Swallowing hard against the knot in his throat he took his smallest finger of his right hand in his left. John took a few short breaths before twisting it painfully to the side, until he heard a sickening crack.

The pain, though excruciating, only lasted a moment before it dulled into a horrible throbbing sensation. His head fell forward and he breathed heavily, trying to block out the sickening feeling in his gut. A bitter taste crept into his mouth, and for a second he thought he might actually be sick, but he held it down, focusing on his breaths. After a few moments he snapped back up, glaring at Mary who still had the bag over Sherlock. The pain was still there, but he did all that he could to hide that fact from everyone who was watching.

"It's done, Let. Him. Go." John's voice was practically a growl, she was enjoying this too much and John was finally beginning to break. Pouting slightly she loosened the hold around his neck so Sherlock could pull the bag off and breath properly.

The detective grabbed the back of the bag and pulled it off his head, taking one deep breath to replace the air he'd been denied. He hadn't struggled for John's sake, and now he saw the way John was trying to hide his broken finger. He absolutely hated this.

"We're almost done." Moriarty cooed at them both, "Finish this last game Sherlock and I'll tell you where to find me. Do everything I ask and I won't touch your pet any more."

Johns breath caught in his chest as he saw what Mary was holding behind Sherlock's head. He knew exactly what it was, without a doubt. Cocaine.

Moriarty had to know Sherlock was an addict, not even an ex addict any longer. What kind of torture was this supposed to be?

Mary precariously placed the items in front of Sherlock one at a time. Once they were all laid out before him she stepped back into the shadows, the game was almost over.

Moriarty smile was wide, his excitement obvious. "So, last trial. You or John?" He cocked his head to the side.

Moriarty was setting similar things in front of John now and Sherlock's heart was racing like a humming bird's. Seeing the stimulant just sitting before him when he'd been so careful the past week and avoided all temptation was wearing on his resolve. John had seemed so proud of him. He was staring at the contents on the table; spoon, white powder, syringe, cotton swabs, when he heard Moriarty's question. Almost dazed, he looked up at John, his eyes finally frightened. This was possibly the hardest challenge he'd faced so far. Not because he couldn't choose between himself and John, but because it was going to put him back to the drawing board once he took this. He wouldn't be able to stop, not until he found John, because with his doctor in the hands of this madman, he didn't have time for withdrawal. He'd have to bring himself down off of it as he went along. God this was torture.

"If you truly want to protect John. If you want to know where I am, you'll administer the drug yourself."

Sherlock's eyes were watery as he looked into the blonde's eyes now. So many emotions were crossing his face, he knew John didn't know what was truly going on in his mind. He took a deep breath and tried to calm his erratic mind. He let it drift to the memory of waking up Christmas morning with the doctor cradled in his arms. Although the memory of the touch was not near as good as the real thing, it calmed him enough to speak to the blonde..

"I don't want to do this John..." he said quietly, although he knew the man could hear him. "I want you to know that no part of me wants to put this stuff in my veins again. I've been doing so good John... but I'm about to ruin it." He took the powder and poured the proper amount in the spoon, diluting it with the water he was provided and stirring it with the toothpick.

Nodding John spoke softly, "I know Sherlock." He did, he knew that Sherlock wouldn't have chosen this. John watched each movement carefully, his lips pressed tightly together as he reminded himself there was nothing he could do to stop this, not if Sherlock wouldn't let him. "You don't have to do it though, you could let me..."

Moriarty didn't seem bothered by the two men attempting to speak privately, ignoring everything else around them. In fact he seemed to like it, he wanted this to be painful for the both of them.

Sherlock refused to look at the doctor as he rolled the cotton swab up to filter out the impurities, and drew the mixture into the syringe. He shrugged his jacket off, rolled up his left sleeve, and clenched his hand into a fist, needle poised ready to breach his arm. He looked back up into John's eyes then, hating how professional he was about doing this, hating John see him do this, but he wanted him to know why he'd chosen this.

"John I'm already broken, and you've been fixing me. I can't let you start down this path too." And then the needle breached his arm, and he was injecting the solution. For a blissful moment he didn't feel anything, and then the haze in his mind began. The world seemed to take on an out of focus view, but John was there in his vision sharp and clear. Sherlock knew he would never forget the expression there, and he hated himself for being the one to put it there. He heard Moriarty speaking and fought hard to listen.

"Very good indeed my son. I'll be sending you an address momentarily. Feel free to take the rest of the cocaine. I'm sure you'll need it. Play nice my children." With a maniacal laugh a series of beeps like the beginning of a movie real sounded and the picture went out.


	11. Coming Undone

Alright guys we are in the final stretch, only five more chapters. Warnings for this chapter. Major character death. Drug use. Not so much torture though, so that's good. Oh, in case you haven't had a chance we have a playlist to go with this story, that's where the chapter titles come from.

watch?v=z7vddTgeS6Q&list=PLgGVjDLaUf7IfmRBbW2cOXtvBrGw-taAd&bpctr=1379342451

The sudden loss of John's presence hit him hard and the anger started to rise from the pit of his stomach. Behind him he felt the young woman moving around. Whether she was nervous or unsure what to do he couldn't tell, but at this point all he knew was that she had touched his John, and they were now alone.

Turning in his chair, he fixed her with an animalistic gaze, his entire body reading predator. His body was low and ready for action, and the fear he saw in her eyes made a shiver run through his body. As he stood, his surroundings pulsed lightly in his peripheral vision, but Mary was as clear as if she were cut from stone. He could practically see her heart beating faster as he advanced on her, shoulders tilted back like a panther. He was stalking her, and she knew it.

"Don't do this." She hissed, backing away from him slowly. "You do this and you're playing right into his game. Father _wants_ you to win, you're his favorite." She spat the words in disgust as she looked for a way of escape, but as she tried to dart past him, a long arm reached out and caught her by the throat. His long fingers wrapped almost completely around the fragile appendage. Two long strides, and she was against a wall, her hands gripping at his, trying to pull the vice-like grip from her as she was slid up, her feet not touching the ground.

"You filthy piece of shit..." he purred, his voice low and dangerous, "Didn't I tell you I would kill you for what you've done?" His hand started to compress and her eyes already wide with fear flickered around the room looking for help of any kind.

Mary gasped for breath, her hands gripping at his wrist desperately. "Seb is dead because of you." She choked out, her voice barely above a whisper. "What else was I-"

"He is dead because of your father." Sherlock spit out the words, interrupting her, "He came after ME, your father sent him after me to force me to kill myself, and your brother took his own life. If you have anyone to blame, look at your father. Look in the mirror!"

She let out a raspy giggle, seemingly oblivious or possibly accepting of the position Sherlock had her in. "Our father Sherly. Our father and our brother. Killing me won't end this. He'll never stop, not until there's one of us left. Congratulations brother dear… You win."

"HE IS NOT MY FATHER. WITHOUT JOHN I HAVE. NO. FAMILY!", Every consonant was pronounced, the cocaine making him stronger and more precise. He leaned back once more, arm fully extended to keep her off the ground, and adjusted his fingers so that he could feel the fragile trachea just beneath the surface of her skin. And then, he just started squeezing. He could feel the fragile appendage giving way beneath his fingers, and his eyes bore down into hers. He felt the tell tale snap beneath his hands and watched her struggle for breath. The life left her eyes slowly, and Sherlock watched every second until he felt her heart stop beating beneath his fingertips.

When he dropped her, the sickening sound of her body hitting the ground broke through the haze around his mind and brought the great detective to his knees beside the lifeless body. Her lifeless body. Mary Moran. She'd had a life, and her only family had been taken from her, Sebastian who had been so much like their father had taken his own life after being manipulated by Moriarty, just like the rest of them had.

_'You help me on cases, you help me catch murderers. I can't let you become one of them.''_ Sherlock's hands twisted in his hair as Lestrade's words echoed in his mind, loudly and without ceasing. The detective tried to will the voice away, but it reverberated within the walls of his head, until he was pounding on his skull with closed fists.

"NO! I AM NOT A MURDERER!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, "I can't... She... she deserved to die... didn't she?" Her words threaded with Lestrade's in his ears.

_'Killing me won't end this. I can't let you become one of them"_

"STOP IT!" he cried, hands tugging at his hair and clawing down his face, "STOP I AM NOT A MURDERER!" But Sherlock knew even now, that this could not be covered up so easily. He would be labeled a murderer, his own life didn't matter. Not any more.

_'Murderer. Brother dear, you win.'_

"Shut up. SHUT UP!" Sherlock growled and slammed both hands on the ground. The pain throbbing through his hand, intensified by his wounds helped quiet the voices in his mind long enough for him to gather his thoughts. Taking a few deep, stabilizing breaths, he was able to push the echoing accusations to the back of his mind. He returned for his coat, and slipped the cocaine in his pocket along with the syringe and bottle of water, then left the building, and Mary behind.. His phone buzzed with a text from John's Mobile.

_Meet me on top of the Tower Bridge in 6 hours. Good luck surviving until then._

_By the way. Good job with Mary. She was getting annoying anyway._

Sherlock growled softly to himself as he disappeared into the city.

The screen snapped off suddenly, John hadn't even seen Moriarty move to turn it off. Shooting from the seat he turned to face the older man. He had promised to give Sherlock an address, he had to give them an address. John's hands were balled in fists painfully at his sides as he glared at Moriarty.

"This is done. Give him the address." John had reached his limit, there was no more staying calm. Had he had any more strength he may have tried taking Moriarty on right then, but he could still barely stand.

Slipping the phone from his pocket he rolled his eyes at John, obviously not bothered by the soldiers anger. "There. Done." He smiled at John wickedly. Something wasn't right, it wasn't over. "You two will get to see each other again. You will... Well.." He drew out the word painfully before moving on, "I mean that's assuming he survives the next six hours."

The smile on Moriarty's face grew to the point that he looked utterly insane, his eyes glistening manically. John's brow furrowed and his head shook back and forth subconsciously.

"What..." He breathed softly.

Moriarty laughed, "What? What does Sherlock have to do to find us? What have I sent him into?" He stepped forward, looming over John dangerously, brushing a hand across his jaw causing John to recoil. "Every connection Sherlock failed to eradicate in the past three years has been given orders to kill him on sight. There's only about fifty assassins out there in London looking for him as we speak."

_You monster. You disgusting filthy bastard._ Thoughts rolled through John's mind, he wanted to hit the man in front of him. He didn't care if he had no chance any more. If he was going to die he was going to take whatever bit of Moriarty with him that he could. But he didn't, the words wouldn't come from his mouth, he couldn't move. Panic swept through him as he met the green eyes dancing in front of him.

"Oh? Something the matter doctor?" He began circling John slowly, his eyes lingering on all the damage he'd caused. "Devil's Breath, you know it's very strong." He brushed his fingers off on the side of his pants. "I just had to get my fingers close enough for you to breath it in, I do love being subtle. Wasn't exactly Mary's forte was it?"

Sherlock had been surprised when the first shot had been taken at him, and now he was making sure to keep obstacles around him at all times. He had only stopped running to shoot up a few times to keep the withdrawals at bay, steadily decreasing the dose. He stopped now, huddled in an alley behind some trash bins to stir the solution and inject it into his arm. He looked at the contents of the bottle, he had a little over half left. Hopefully that would get him through the rest of Moriarty's games. Once that happened he could take John to the hospital and be treated from there.

Looking at his phone he saw that the six hours was almost up. He'd stayed relatively close to the bridge at first, but all the assassins seemed to be there, so he'd fallen back. He had about fifteen minutes to get to the bridge, and he intended to make it on time. Closing his eyes briefly, he let the maps of London filter until he could pick the best route and headed that way. He dodged bullets and knocked out would be stabbers, until finally, he was standing at the foot of the Tower Bridge.

Looking around the regularly populated area, he saw neither John nor Moriarty, but looking up he saw two figures on top of the metalworking. Quickly spotting a maintenance ladder that was fairly hidden, he made his way towards it and began his ascent to the top. The drugs pumping through his veins kept him calm as he emerged at the top.

Across a steel girder, he could see Moriarty holding on to one of John's arms, holding him precariously towards the edge. About fifty feet from Sherlock, halfway between them, was two bottles. Sherlock could see a single pill in each bottle, and his stomach blanched.

"So nice of you to join us Sherlock... I have one last puzzle for you."


	12. Empty With You

"We've really come full circle now haven't we?" Moriarty glanced down at bottles and then back up at Sherlock. He was carelessly holding John on the edge of the metal framework, but he seemed unaware of his precarious situation. His blue eyes were fixed on Sherlock desperately.

"Although last time you didn't play my game right. Apparently someone," his lip twitched in anger and disgust as he glared at the man beside him. "Stopped you."

His face relaxed as he looked back to Sherlock. "But that won't happen again, not this time. I assume you understand the rules of the game, the twist of course being if you refuse then you lose your precious doctor." He relaxed his grip on John, so the man swayed slightly, as if to make his point.

Sherlock held up a hand as if to stay Moriarty's anger.

"I'll play." He said, almost having to shout over the wind, "I'm assuming it's just like it was before." he started moving towards the other two men and stopped where the two bottles were. He stooped down and picked them both up, one in each hand. His left hand and arm throbbed weakly with the residual pain from the burn and having his nails ripped off, but he ignored it.

He looked down at the pills as he walked and tried to decipher which pill he should take. They were both identical, white capsules with red spots. He was sure there were no differences so he stopped not too far away from Moriarty and John, about five feet or so, and held both bottles up, watching for any reaction the man might have to give away the nature of them.

"I suppose one will kill me, and the other won't?"

"I really should not have to explain this to you." Moriarty spat, obviously bored. He took a step closer to Sherlock, dragging John behind him. "I do hate repeating myself." He sighed heavily, they were within arms reach of each other. "Yes, one will kill you and one won't. The only real difference is that the bad pill is... a little slow acting. It'll take twelve hours to be precise."

"And if I take one, you'll release John?" he asked. He didn't see any indication as to which was the one he should take.

"Of course." The man's wily smile made Sherlock nervous, but he turned his gaze back down to the pills in his hand. When he had picked them up the one on the left had been precisely 5mm closer to Moriarty than himself. Based on the knowledge that Moriarty wanted him to live, he had to deduce that there was a reason one was closer to him than the other. Tossing the one from his right hand off the side of the bridge, he unscrewed the bottle and tipped the pill into his hand. With a slightly shaky hand he placed the pill between his teeth and hesitated. If he made the wrong choice. He may only have twelve hours left with John.

But at least you'll have twelve hours. At least John will be alive.

With that thought in his mind, he swallowed the pill.

Moriarty glowered at Sherlock as he swallowed the pill. He violently pulled John forward as he growled at Sherlock. "Always!" He shook his head as his voice rose. "You always choose wrong!"

John was beginning to struggle listlessly against Moriarty's grip. But it was no use, he was being hung over the edge of metal frame, a drop he wouldn't survive.

"You want your bloody doctor?" Moriarty was becoming manic as he shoved a limp John toward Sherlock. "Catch him."

The moment Moriarty had let go of John he'd slipped to the side, missing Sherlock completely. His body hit the metal hard and then he was slipping down, his body still too drugged to grasp onto the slick metal.

"No!" Sherlock sprinted and dove for John, barely managing to capture his forearm as he slid forward. He cried out as the doctor's weight jerked on his arm, and fingers gripped his burned skin. Grunting, he reached out for the man's other hand.

"Come on John give me your other hand!" He gritted through his teeth, "I've got you." John was swinging precariously, and there was no way Sherlock was going to let him plummet to his death. Not now that he'd come so close to having him back.

Moriarty leered from a safe distance. "You were supposed to be me Sherlock! You have disappointed me, you disgust me."

John managed to reach up, locking his fingers through the detectives. His blood was racing, helping him come to his senses. Gripping Sherlock's hand tightly he nodded, he was okay, he was there.

Moriarty leaned forward over the pair of them. "You're really willing to die over that." His voice was a bitter snarl. "I can't believe I thought you'd be a fitting successor."

Sherlock growled and pulled John up to the girder, helping him over the side, and wrapped his arms around him. Even though it had been the start of all this, he showed his affection and relief by a brief press of his nose and cheek on top of the man's head, just to reassure himself that his doctor was indeed safe. He stood then, whirling on the man, making sure to keep John behind him at all times.

"Who do you think you are playing with people's lives like this? You act like life is just a game for your pleasure. You act like..." He stopped cold. Moriarty acted exactly how Sherlock had been taught all of his life. He acted like sentiment was a weakness.

"My sentiment for John does not make me weak. It makes things harder sometimes yes but my life is so much fuller he entered my life and I began to care for him. Maybe that's your problem." He took a step towards Moriarty, not wanting to leave John but knowing he couldn't just let this go.

Moriarty shook his head, backing away from Sherlock. "But it does. You put your life on the line over and over for... For that." His eyes shot back to John. "Why can't you ever make the right choice?! You could have let him die, and you would live… But you don't. You let your heart rule your mind. It's pathetic."

Squaring his shoulders, his lips turned in an animalistic snarl he stepped back towards Sherlock. His eyes were alight with anger and resent. "You were supposed to be me." He sounded confused, even through the veil of anger.

Sherlock snarled back and stalked to the man. Gripping him by the lapels he lifted the older man into the air, shaking him like a ragdoll. The cocaine was making him bolder and angrier than he ever remembered.

"I will never be you." He spoke through grit teeth as he started pushing the man backwards, "For the simple fact that I am not willing to do these things to people..."

Moriarty barely seemed phased by the sudden attack from Sherlock. He cackled horrendously, throwing his head back. "Do what? Kill people? Put innocent lives in danger? Sherlock... What wouldn't you do for John? You're just a weak pathetic version of me." Grabbing at the front of Sherlocks jacket, pulling them almost nose to nose he growled. "My blood, my flesh. Hell Sherlock, without me you wouldn't even exist."

"I AM NOT YOU!" He yelled. His body was shaking now and he released one lapel to punch the man across his face. Sherlock didn't stop there, he reared back and punched him again, because the man was right. He'd taken innocent lives. He'd killed Irene, he'd killed Mary. He'd hurt John because he was selfish. He should have never helped Lestrade with the new cases, he should have stayed wrapped up in John and getting better.

The man before him was everything he never wanted to be. With a growl he released him totally and punched him once more. They were getting dangerously close to the edge, but Sherlock didn't care, all he knew was that he had to destroy what he could become. He had to kill Moriarty so he would never become him.

"SHERLOCK!" John yelled out, but the detective was lost in a coke and anger filled haze. John was finally aware enough to see as Sherlock pulled back to punch Moriarty once again, how close they were to the edge. Scrambling towards the two of them he somehow managed to grab hold of the hood of Sherlock's coat just in time. As Sherlock's fist made contact with the bloodied mess that was now Moriarty's face the older man lost his footing, pulling Sherlock down with him as he fell back off the edge of the bridge.

John collapsed as his arms cried out from the sudden weight, but he held on tightly, the hood being the only thing stopping him from losing Sherlock for good. He saw Moriarty quickly lose his grasp and plummet down. A thin trail of blood trickled down his right arm, the bandage soaking through quickly under the pressure. "God Sherlock.." His breathing was labored, "Reach up and grab my arm!" Each gust of icy wind caused the slick material to slip through his fingers.

Reaching up Sherlock gripped John's forearms, trying not to flail against the wind. Moriarty screamed as he plummeted down, hitting his back on a girder with a sickening crack, and tumbled into the water. No one could survive a fall that far.

"John!" He called up, "John are you alright?" His breath was coming fast and he knew he had to calm down or he would hyperventilate.

For once John was thankful that Sherlock was ridiculously light. "I'm fine," he breathed as he helped Sherlock up, pausing to readjust once he had Sherlocks upper body over the edge of the girder. There was a fine stream of blood dripping down his wrist as he aided Sherlock over the edge.

They both looked like shit. John was still in his dark jeans, his shirt never returned to him. The skin of his arms and chest were littered with cuts and bruises. A dark ring of hickeys circled his neck, a less permanent but no less painful reminder of the past few days.

Finally Sherlockstood and removed his jacket, wrapping it around John's shoulders. He stood there for a moment, just looking down at John, almost not believing after all of the ordeals he'd been through, that both of them made it out the other side.

Gripping John's upper arms, he let his eyes roam over his face before pulling him in tight against his chest.

"I thought I was going to lose you..." Sherlock pressed John close to him, trying to remind himself that this was finally over, that, no matter what happened to him, John would be okay. "Come on, lets get you to the hospital..."

Mentally and physically exhausted John leaned into Sherlock, breathing him in as he nodded against his chest. John wasn't exactly clear as to how they'd ended up on the bridge. He knew he'd been under the Devil's Breath yet again, the important thing was that he had Sherlock. Sherlock was alive, and Moriarty was dead. With John leaning heavily on Sherlock, cradling his bleeding arm against his chest, the two made their way down off the bridge.

John was fairly certain he heard Sherlock call someone. Lestrade?

He wasn't sure, his mind was cloudy, and he couldn't focus right. Had he lost too much blood finally? John hadn't remembered sitting down, but then Sherlock was beside him, his thin arm wrapped around John's shoulders. Whispering that help was one the way, that everything would be alright.

"Don't leave me now..."

That was the last thing John heard as he drifted off.

A/N: So if you haven't noticed, the game Moriarty was playing loosely matched up with all the big cases Moriarty was involved in. Big Ben-The Fall, The funhouse with John on hounds-Hounds, Killing Irene-Scandal, the torture trials-the great game, all the assasains-The blind banker, and of course the pills-a study in pink.


	13. Scientist

A/N: Hey guys. Sorry this was late. Also I gave the last chapter the wrong name. I title chapter 12 Scientist, when that was supposed to be chapter 13. I have changed Chapter 12 to the correct name, empty with you. Enjoy 3

Sherlock knocked on the door to Joan Wilson's room. He'd already been to see Sheldon, and John was likely to still be out for a little while. Sherlock hadn't wanted to leave his side, but he'd promised to come back, and he owed it to the victims to give them closure. A soft voice beckoned him inside, and he opened the door with caution.

He had already swatted away three nurses trying to get him to lay down in a bed and rest, and he'd refused to even let them attempt to feed him painkillers. They'd managed to clean and bandage his wounds, but he knew why Joan's eyes widened in surprise at the sight of him.

"Mr. Holmes, are you alright? You look terrible!" She asked, sitting forward. Her chest was still bandaged, but the color had returned to her cheeks.

"I'm fine, and I can only stay for a moment. I did, however, want you to know that it's done. Moriarty, the man who took you and killed your partner, he is dead. I made sure of it." He said, stepping a little closer, and looking down at her.

"The man you came here with to talk to me before, he was taken wasn't he?" Her eyes were wide and knowing, and Sherlock's carefully constructed expression slipped just a little.

"Yes, yes he was. He's here in the hospital, he was drugged but with time he should be fine." The detective looked away until he felt a soft hand slip over his. He turned his eyes to their joined hands, and then up into her face. She was genuinely concerned, and her fingers squeezed his in a display of comfort.

"Thank you." she said softly, "Even if it wasn't what was going through your mind when you stopped him, thank you for making sure that Sherly's death wasn't pointless." Her eyes had begun watering, and a few wayward tears had slipped down her cheeks. Sherlock found that he couldn't look at her any longer, and turned away once more.

"You're welcome." he said simply. She sniffed, and he could hear her wiping her face.

"Go to him, I'm sure yours will be the face he wants to see first. One more thing though, before you go Mr. Holmes." Sherlock stopped halfway to the door and forced his mask back in place to turn around. He didn't trust his voice, so he only raised an eyebrow to prompt her to continue.

"Don't ever take him for granted." Those few words tugged at his chest, and he dropped his chin, fringe hiding his eyes.

"Don't worry, even if I had the chance to, I wouldn't." With that he turned, and let the door close quietly behind him as he went in search of Mycroft. There were things he needed to get in order.

John woke with a start, his sense on alert. It took a moment for the world to come into focus, everything was too bright. White walls, white sheets, a faint beeping noise. He was in a hospital room. Everything felt stiff, but he seemed to have full use of all his limbs, and all his injuries had been properly cared for.

He could hear Sherlock arguing with someone outside.

"As soon as he is awake we are leaving!" Sherlock's voice was raised and agitated, "I don't care about my injuries Mycroft, they don't matter!"

"Sherlock half your arm has been badly burned, you're covered in blood and who knows what's going on with that hand, Sherlock you need to have medical attention. And we don't know if John is okay to leave."

"John is exhausted, but there is no lasting physical damage. Once he wakes up we're leaving." He looked at Mycroft then, "Please for once in your life, don't be a ponce. I don't want to spend the little time I have left having wounds treated. They have been properly bandaged, that's enough. Please. I just want to take him home and be with him for these last few hours..." Suddenly he stopped, hearing the change in the heart monitor beeping.

He bustled into the room and his eyes softened when he saw John was awake. "Hey..." He said softly, brushing his unbandaged fingertips across his cheek.

John reached up, circling Sherlock's wrist with his hand as he leaned into the touch, "Last few hours?" His brow was furrowed, holding Sherlock's hand against his cheek, like the touch would keep them stuck in this moment. Part of him knew, of course he knew. He'd seen the pills, he'd listen to Moriarty rant about his plan for hours while he was drugged, waiting for Sherlock on top of that bridge. But he didn't want to recall the hazy memory, remembering meant it was real.

"Sherlock..." John breathed his name desperately. He couldn't lose him, not again. "There has to be something we can do. We can stop this, there has to be... something.. an antidote?"

"John, there's nothing. There's nothing we can do... But I have about four hours left..." He leaned down and pressed his forehead to the doctor's, grateful Mycroft was keeping Lestrade out in the hall.

"If it's alright, I'd like to go back to the flat as soon as you're ready. If I only have four hours left, I can't think of anyone else I'd rather spend that time with than you."

There wasn't much fear within him. Just an odd calm and a resounding sadness that kept his voice soft. He wanted to take John in his arms and hold him, just hold him until he lacked the strength, just to prove to that part of him that was still pumping with adrenaline that he was safe and sound. His eyes squeezed shut against the pain that welled up in his chest at the thought of leaving John again.

The heart rate monitor picked up again, prompting John to peel off the small adhesives scattered across his chest. He nodded softly, closing his eyes as his nose brushed against the side of Sherlock"s. John's jaw clenched against the rising tide of emotion as he pulled the rest of the monitor devices off him. Turning away from Sherlock he pulled out the IV, closing his elbow tightly to stop the bleeding as he swung his legs off the side of the bed, opposite Sherlock.

John couldn't look Sherlock in the eyes, not here, not while everyone could see them. He wouldn't be able to keep himself together.

Mycroft knocked on the door as he stepped into the room. He took one look at John, who was wrapping a bandage around the small puncture from the IV, before turning to Sherlock. "I've taken care of everything. You two may leave, Lestrade and I will be by in four hours." He took a step forward, standing awkwardly in front of his little brother. Mycroft stood for a moment, like he might try and offer some sort of comfort, but in the end he simply held out his hand to Sherlock.

He spoke softly, as if the words were only meant for Sherlock, but John still heard. "We'll take care of him."

Chancing a look back at the two of them John saw Mycroft had grasped Sherlock's hand in both of his, a bit of emotion bleeding through. They had both changed so much.

Sherlock grasped Mycroft's hand and shook it, silently thanking him with his eyes. "Make sure that you do." His voice shook slightly as he spoke.

When John was up and ready to go, Sherlock moved to his side and wrapped his injured arm around the doctor's shoulder and pulled him close. Leading him outside, Sherlock hailed a taxi and ushered John inside. Once Sherlock had directed the cabbie back to 221B, he wrapped his arm around John and pulled him close so that he was leaning back against Sherlock's chest. The detective pressed his nose into John's hair, arms wrapped around his chest. The cabbie gave them a strange look but Sherlock only glared back at him until he pulled away from the curb.

"Are you really okay?" He asks, his voice soft as velvet in the doctor's ear.

John's arms found hold over the detectives, essentially trapping himself in Sherlock's grasp. Was he okay? No. He was not bloody okay. His best friend, the man he'd just realized he loved, was dying. The first and last time they'd kissed, the one time he'd come close to exposing his true feelings, he'd ran away. And now he had less than four hours to show Sherlock how much he meant to him.

But that wasn't what Sherlock was asking of course. He wanted to know if John was physically okay, if he was in too much pain. It didn't matter if he was in pain, not really, they only had four hours.

He nodded softly against Sherlock, too afraid to speak just yet. His fingers laced with through the detectives, closing his eyes softly as he tried to focus on the moment. They only had here and now and John couldn't waste it feeling sorry for himself.

Slight trembling of hands. Increased heart rate. Breathing as if lungs are full or air is scarce. Sweating, pulling closer, not speaking. No John Watson you are not okay.

"You're a terrible liar..." He whispered in the man's ear. He allowed his fingers to be held captive by the soldiers and closed his eyes, letting himself map out the feeling where their bodies touched. His brain was in hyper drive, distracting himself from the harsh reality that he only had four hours left to spend in this city that he loved, with this man that had stolen his very life and inserted himself in it. His head was filled with swirling thoughts of the army doctor. John eating toast, John fresh out of the shower, John watching him shoot up the cocaine...

The thought brought him to examine the effects of the drug and he found that he would soon start coming down from the euphoric high, and although he no longer wanted to continue the use, he didn't want to spend the precious time he had left worrying about the pain of withdrawal.

Soon they pulled up their flat, and Sherlock paid the cabbie, pulling John with him, never once letting go of his hand. He led John up the stairs, and into the sitting room where he removed his coat from John's shoulders and hung it up on the peg next to his overcoat.

"How about some tea?" He asked softly, his hand resting on the blonde's upper arm.

Shaking his head John finally looked up to meet Sherlock's gaze. Those eyes. John had been in a haze since the cab, but Sherlock's question seemed to bring him back to the moment.

"No."

No, because tea couldn't fix this. Nothing could.

John's brow furrowed as he stepped closer to the detective, one hand rose to cup Sherlock's cheek gently. "I don't think tea's what we need... Do you?"

Any worries or fears John had been harboring before Christmas had been swept away, it all seemed meaningless now. How could he have ever been afraid or ashamed of loving this man. This man who was willing to do anything for him, ready to die for him. John took another step forward so their bodies were almost flush, his thumb danced across Sherlock's cheek softly.

"I wish I'd never left Sherlock." It'd seemed impossible that he'd heard those words barely two weeks before from the detective. If he hadn't of walked out on Sherlock none of this would have happened, a piece of guilt that was sure to eat at him until the day he died.

Sherlock let out a breath that was meant to be a laugh, but somewhere between his lungs and his mouth, the vicinity of his heart he imagined, it lost all its resolve. He closed his eyes then, feeling the callouses worn into John's hand from his gun grip, breathing in the air the other was breathing out because he wanted the man all around and inside him. He wanted to be filled to the brim with everything that was John so that for the last moments of his life, he wouldn't feel empty anymore.

"No..." He breathed finally, "That's not what we need, and please don't muddle our time with apologies or wishes, just... Be with me John," he lifted the shorter man's other hand to his chest and placed it over his heart, "I want all of you. I want all the things I regret not voicing until now, but, first I'm afraid we must do something unpleasant..."

Pulling John's hand away from his face, he laced their fingers together and pulled him the few steps to the coat rack, unwilling to let the soldier go for even a moment. He reached inside the pocket and filled out the materials he'd been using to administer the cocaine into his system.

"As much as I want to be sober for you John, I don't want your last memories of me to be in agony. I'm sorry, I don't want to, but you understand why I must don't you?" His eyes were wide and nervous as he looked down at the shorter man.

John's eye narrowed slightly as he studied the contents of Sherlock's hand carefully, but his expression quickly softened as Sherlock explained. Slowly, John reached out, cupping his free hand over Sherlock's, sliding the contents into his grasp. Seeing distress cross the detectives features John merely shook his head, pulling the man across the room until they were standing in front of the green armchair. He set the infernal, but necessary drug on the edge of the writing desk before softly pushing Sherlock back into his familiar arm chair. John paused, taking in the sight, trying to memorize how perfect the man in front of him looked.

He was standing just in front of Sherlock, his knees touching the seat cushion, centered between Sherlock's. He could lean forward, right now, catch that beautiful mouth, but where would he stop? No. They had to do this first.

Standing farther away than he personally would have liked John explained. "I told you you wouldn't have to face any of this alone. I meant that." He drew his bottom lip between his teeth, his eyes darting from Sherlock to the drugs beckoning him. He wouldn't not let Sherlock do this alone again. "Tell me what to do."


	14. Born to Die

**A/N: **Smut abound... Still sad. Just to make sure we are clear. This will not have a happy resolution. We have been hearing from a lot of you guys and we know it is an upsetting ending. Part three will make it better.

"Tell me what to do."

Sherlock closed his eyes so John couldn't see how much it ripped him apart to hear those words. He took a deep breath and motioned to the bottled water that had been left on the table from the Christmas party.

"You'll want to mix just enough water to fill the spoon once the powder is in there." He took the spoon and measured out a little of the powder, considerably less than the amount he'd used with Moriarty then handed the spoon to John.

"From there you'll stir it with the toothpick and draw it up into the syringe." He looked up at John then, his eyes clear and sharp, "You know the rest from there." One hand, his uninjured one, left the armrest and touched John's hip, a comforting but stable pressure emitting through his fingers.

"You don't have to do this..." He whispered finally.

John had finished stirring the solvent and was drawing it up into the syringe. Head was bowed in concentration, only his eyes flicked up to look at Sherlock.

Setting everything but the syringe to the side he ran his free hand up Sherlock's arm, tracing the still visible track lines until he came to the crook of his elbow. Horrible as it was, this was a part of Sherlock now, and the time to argue about it was over.

Running his thumb over the vein John looked back at Sherlock, their eyes locked. Of course

Sherlock understood, he always understood everything. "I really do though. If this is the last thing I can do for you, I need to be the one to do it."

His eyes left Sherlocks long enough to make sure he wasn't missing his mark as the needle broke through the pale white skin, and then they were focused back on Sherlocks as he gently pulled the needle away.

Sherlock felt the flat go fuzzy after a few moments, but John stood there, the only part of his world in focus. He looked up at the doctor then, and suddenly all the want and need of the past three years and the past two weeks crashed into him, spurring him into motion.

The hand that had been on John's hip had fallen back to the chair while the man had administered the drug, but now both hands shot to grip his hips, pulling them forward so that the blonde was straddling Sherlock's lap. There was room for the man's knees around the detective's thin frame, and he reached up, one threading into the short military cut, the other cupping his face.

"John..." He breathed, and then even that small space was too far. He pulled the soldier into himself, crushing their lips together in a needy gesture. His mouth was hungry as he pressed against the solid man in his lap. He'd never felt more addicted to something in his life as he did now. The taste of John's lips was enough to stop his heart prematurely.

If John had been startled, he didn't show it. He was quickly pressing his knees into the back of the seat, forcing their bodies closer. He couldn't get enough.

His hands roamed down the detectives chest unbuttoning the flannel shirt as he went. Pulling his mouth away from Sherlock's, he bowed forward, pressing their foreheads together. John was breathing heavily, his eyes still closed as he pushed the shirt back off Sherlock's shoulders, dropping it to the floor once he'd slipped it off the detective.

Sitting back John ran his hand through Sherlock's hair and down to the back of his neck. Lacing his fingers through the hair there before dipping back down, slower this time. He paused, his lips just brushing against Sherlock's, their breath mingled and John had never found any sensation so arousing.

"I'm sorry I didn't let us have this before." Their lips brushed as he whispered softly. All he wanted now was to explore every bit of Sherlock's body. John was desperate to give everything he could in the little time they had.

"What did I tell you about apologies? Honestly John, do keep up..." He tried to be calm as he connected their lips again, but as the chemicals burrowed deeper through his veins, he became more agitated and insistent. Hands slipped down to the doctor's waist, tipping his hips forward.

Cool fingers skittered up beneath John's shirt, left hand playing Chopin on his ribs, right hand hesitantly scoping out the edges of the starburst scar where the bullet had exited that tanned flesh. They danced and flitted over John's warm skin.

Warm lips drifted downwards over the line of John's jaw, up to his ear and back down his throat where a row of pearly white teeth nipped at his collar bones. Then the detective stilled and pulled away, as if seeing the fading hickeys for the first time.

"I'll erase every trace of her on you and replace it with my own..." He growled, his normal baritone deeper and huskier than usual.l

Suddenly, with the right leverage, Sherlock pushed them both from the chair, standing, his arms beneath the soldiers thighs. John wasn't light, but the drugs coursing through him made him feel almost invincible in that moment.

John wrapped his arms around the thin shoulders, only slightly surprised by the random bout of strength. Starting at Sherlock's ear he worked his way down to his collarbone, nipping softly at the skin as he went. His words were almost lost as be breathed them out heavily against the mans elegant neck. "I know... Only you…"

He worked his way back up, and their lips quickly found each other again. John sucked softly at Sherlock's bottom lip and deepened the kiss, before letting out a soft moan. One hand cupped the back of Sherlock's neck holding them close together while the other desperately grasped at his back, leaving light marks across the delicate skin.

Sherlock groaned heartily into the other's mouth, his fingertips gripping the man's thighs harder than he meant to, before letting John's feet find the floor. Everything was painfully out of focus now as he moved, pulling John to his room. Something in the back of his mind nagged that in the two weeks he'd been home John had slept in there every night and had even moved his clothes. No, this room at one point had become theirs.

He quickly pushed John forward, laying him out on the bed. Sherlock looked down at the smaller man and felt desire coil in the pit of his stomach. Without a moments thought, he slid one knee between the blonde's and let his hands slide over John's pectoral muscles. His fingertips were light as they moved down his arms, but when they reached his wrists his eyes found the purple marks on the doctor's chest once more, and something feral was opened inside of him.

With a low growl, he pulled the man's hands above his head, holding them there gently as he lowered his head to bite his way down the tanned throat, hard enough to leave marks until he reached the fading bruises left behind by the late Mary Morstan.

"Mine." Sherlock growled before latching onto the sensitive skin with urgent teeth and hungry lips.

John's back arched as his body desperately attempted to get closer, to find more contact. "God yes Sherlock. All yours." John moaned the words like it was a mantra, "Always been yours." They were both desperate to prove it to each other, that all of this hadn't been for naught.

He writhed listlessly under the detectives hold. Sherlock was stronger right now thanks to the drugs, John knew that. It probably should have hurt both of them, all the damage that had been done, but between the drugs and desperation neither man seemed to care. He wanted Sherlock to mark him in every way possible, he didn't want to look at the scars and bruises and think of anyone else, only Sherlock.

Wrapping his leg up around Sherlock's hip he pulled him closer, their bodies flush once again. Johns hips rose instinctually as he arched his neck, guiding Sherlock to a particularly sensitive spot on his collarbone. He was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath as Johns hips rolled up into Sherlock's once again.

It was as if the detective had forgotten that part of his body and John had just acquainted him with it. His own hips bore down on the smaller man causing a delicious spark of pleasure at the center of Sherlock's arousal. He made a noise that sounded a little triumphant as the fading bruise was now bright red. It would be a delightful mixture of green and purple by the morning. He tried not to think of the fact that he wouldn't see that.

Sherlock ignored the pulsing burn in his injured fingers as he shifted his grip so that both of John's wrists were held by one hand while his good hand traveled down the soldier's side. Long fingers slipped easily into the back of the dark jeans and gripped one supple cheek as he laid claim to the other side of John's chest.

When it was as red and swollen as the first side, his kisses began traveling down John's taut stomach smattered with golden hair. Teeth and tongue were abundant in his journey, and he finally released the other's hands as his own found a more suitable purpose, unbuttoning jeans and tugging at the zip.

Sherlock had done a few things with both men and women. He knew the mechanics, had gleaned how to be at least moderately proficient at giving pleasure to his partner. He himself had remained detached, but this was different.

Growling again darkly, he tugged the jeans and pants down John's hips, leaving John completely naked before him. A sure hand reached for the base of his cock as a hungry mouth gave one long lick up the entire length before encasing the head in the velvet heat of his mouth.

Sherlock knew John had never done anything like this before, he'd also been prepared since that first night he'd realized he wanted this. Although the desperation and need was coursing through his veins like the need for his next hit, he knew he had to ease John into it, at least a little.

A shiver ran through his body, drawing a moan from the detective, vibrating his lips around the sensitive member in his mouth.

The soft vibrations caused Johns good hand to find hold in Sherlock's hair. Chancing a glance down he let out a soft moan at the sight. He'd had blow jobs before, but not like this, not from a man. The fact that it was almost taboo in a way made it all the more exciting, and it was almost enough to make him forget how little time they had.

Propping himself up on one arm he watched with heavy lidded eyes. John had never considered how gorgeous Sherlock's mouth was, but now, with his pronounced cupids bow wrapped around him, it was all he could think about. His hand carded through the soft curls that were already reemerging.

The green eyes flitted up, catching John's and he was undone. Falling back to the mattress with a soft thud Johns breathing picked up. He was vaguely aware that words were falling from his lips, but he wasn't entirely sure what he was saying.

He repeated the detectives name, his voice heavy with lust. "You're so bloody perfect Sherlock." Too many people had tried to convince Sherlock otherwise, he had to know that.

As heat and desire coiled in the pit of his stomach Johns eyes fell closed, all thought was lost. He felt like a ruddy teenager, driven by hormones and lust. He could feel his jaw quivering slightly, tears threatening to spill over despite himself.

Between the gorgeous heat from Sherlock's mouth and the enthusiastic motions, as Sherlock bobbed up and down taking in almost the whole shaft, his tongue working at the head expertly, John was finding himself embarrassingly close to coming. Tugging softly on the detectives hair he guided him back up until they were face to face again, their lips crashing together greedily. His good hand roamed down Sherlock's side until he found the waistband of his jeans. Tentatively he hooked a thumb under the material on the inside of his hip as his fingers brushed at the button.

John wasn't sure if he was asking for permission or guidance. Honestly it was probably a bit of both.

Sherlock let one hand come down to cover John's hesitant one. With guiding fingers, he helped the smaller man undo his now too tight jeans and tugged at the zip hurriedly. It felt so new and scandalous as he half laced his fingers with John's and guided them inside to lift the throbbing center of his need out of their restrictions.

Curling John's fingers over the sensitive flesh he let a moan spill into the doctor's mouth, and nipped at his lips affectionately. Once the hand on his member was no longer hesitant, he shifted slightly so that he could reach into his bedside table. He pulled out a bottle of slick liquid and when the strokes on his normally forgotten member grew almost too much, he pushed the hand away gently, and moved so that he was looking down into John's eyes as hands pulled both sets of jeans off completely.

"I want to be inside you... Will you give me that John?"

John's eyes widened, slightly taken aback by the request. Of course he'd known that was where they were headed, but to hear the request so outright set his nerves of fire.

Biting his bottom lip, John nodded. He wanted to give Sherlock everything. Attempting to still his ragged breaths he focused on the eyes boring down into him. They were still blown wide from the drugs, but there was something else too. Sherlock was concerned, cautiously treading forward so as to not scare him off.

John wanted to be with Sherlock, and finally there was no fear as to what that made him. All that mattered was here and now, and for once he wasn't running away

His breath a little more steady he nodded again, "Yes." John managed to sound sure and resolute, even with his voice thick with lust.


	15. Wasteland

**A/N: Only one more chapter. We will be doing a livestreamed video between part two and three. If you want to join us for a q&a send us a message. We will pick the time best for everyone.**

"Yes."

Sherlock bestowed him with a genuine smile and brushed a hand over John's forehead, lowering his body to feel, for the first time, nothing but John from head to toe.

Pressing his lips to John's ear, he groaned, low and deep as he thrust his hips against the hardness beneath him. He could get lost in that sinful pleasure, but the thought of so much more was what spurred him to move down the other's body.

"I'll do my best to distract you, but you'll need to stay relaxed." He whispered against the skin somewhere near John's hip, warm breath brushing over the pulsing shaft. Slowly, and deliberately, he began teasing John's member with his lips and tongue, only giving enough pressure to feel good but not enough to drive him higher.

When John was positively writhing under his ministrations, a slick finger gently circled the ring of muscles before sliding slowly into the warm, wet heat. Sherlock was gentle but insistent. Once his finger began meeting resistance, Sherlock knew John was tensing at the intrusion, he swallowed him down to the hilt to change where his attention was.

Once effectively distracted, he let his digit slide the rest of the way in, curling and twisting searching for... His eyebrows shot up as his finger grazed the nub he'd been looking for.

John gripped at the bedsheets desperately as a deep guttural moan escaped his lips. His hips thrust upwards a bit, overcome by the sensation but searching for more. He knew of the prostate, he was a doctor, but John had never imagined this. It was exquisite.

It took a few gentle strokes from Sherlock's nimble fingers for John to relax. He felt lost in waves of pleasure, but Sherlock was there, tenderly walking him through.

Just when John wasn't sure he could take any more the nimble finger disappeared, but he barely had time to voice his displeasure when two fingers slowly entered him. Even John could feel himself tensing at the new intrusion, but soon Sherlock was distracting him again. Hot, heavy breath clung to his skin as Sherlock worked his way up the shaft. Pausing at the top to take only the head in his mouth, sucking softly.

Giving one last suck and twist of his fingers, he pulled away and slid back up John's body to kiss him once more. Then, tugging on his arms, he rolled them over, so that John was now in control of their movements.

Within moments, the lubricant was in Sherlock's hands, he didn't even remember reaching for it, and he was slicking himself generously before pressing more inside of the recently stretched doctor. With a groan he bucked, his cock rutting against John's thigh when he felt the muscles clamp down on his fingers, begging them to stay inside.

"It will be easier this way." He said through grit teeth, his hands moving to John's hips, "just go at the pace you need. Once you're ready..." He trailed off for a moment as he sat up enough to brush his nose against the other's, stormy eyes gazing up with adoration, "When you're ready, I'll show you how much you mean to me..."

Johns eyes fell closed as their lips brushed briefly before Sherlock fell back into the bed. His hands held John steady, waiting until he opened his eyes again to offer Sherlock a small, sad smile. He already knew how much he meant to Sherlock, everything that had happened since his return spoke for that, but Sherlock didn't do emotions. This was him physically showing John what he couldn't put into words.

John had prepared himself mentally, reminding himself to focus on Sherlock, to relax. He had expected it to be uncomfortable at the very least, but as he slowly bared down he let out a surprised gasp. Even stretched as he was, the sudden burn was overwhelming and glorious. He slowly lowered himself, until he'd taken all of Sherlock's length, and then he stilled until he felt himself relax.

His body shuddered and his eyelids fluttered softly as he began to move again slowly. On the next stroke down Sherlock adjusted slightly, causing his member to press against the sensitive nub inside of John.

John gasped, as he called out Sherlock's name.

Sherlock bit his lip hard as John slid down his length. A long groan fell from his lips as he gripped tight to the other's hips to keep himself from bucking up into the heat. When the blonde began to move, his entire world shrank to the two of them, and John was all that mattered. If he were truly honest since they'd met John had been one of the two most important things in his life.

The gasp of pleasure gave Sherlock the sign he'd been waiting for. Gripping John's hips, he rolled once more so that the doctor was beneath him and gave an experimental thrust of his hips, loving the way his name tumbled from kiss swollen lips. His good hand hooked under the soldier's right knee, pressing it back, letting a foot dangle over his shoulder, and felt himself slide even deeper. His sharp hip bones pressed against thighs as he felt like he was dividing the man beneath him so he could climb inside and never leave. Buried to the hilt, he leaned forward, capturing John's eyes once more as little teasing circles were made with his pelvis.

"John, I want you to trust me. Close your eyes, let yourself feel every bit of this, focus on me, on everything you're feeling..." His voice was a throaty rumble, "Don't open your eyes until I say. I want to enhance your memory so that you'll never forget this moment..."

The reminder that this moment was fleeting, that this was the only time they would be together made John hesitate. Placing his good hand low on Sherlocks abdomen, John let his eyes travel up and down, taking in everything that was Sherlock. His gaze slowly traveled back up until their eyes were locked.

His lip twitched minutely, but Sherlock didn't miss it. A silent conversation they couldn't have now.

Letting his hand drop so his fingers were softly dancing along Sherlocks thigh Johns eyes fluttered closed. His breathing slowed as he focused on the feel of Sherlock's body pressed to his.

When John spoke, eyes still closed softly, his voice was deep. "I'll never forget this. Never."

Sherlock closed his eyes as well, heart wrenching at John's words. Letting his head lean back, he began to move, his hips snapping back before pressing inside. The slow burn was strangely intoxicating as he lost himself in the feeling of rocking into the man beneath him.

And his mind was suddenly full of John. John from every angle, John in the morning, John as he falls asleep, John angry at him, John worried about him... Sherlock let out a soft cry as his body began to rock faster, angling his hips so that he felt the delicious tightening of every pleasurable thrust he gave. Each time he sheathed himself inside of John he felt like he was giving te doctor one more moment with him, trying to counteract all the bad he'd ever done.

Hanging his head, his hand found John's lacing their fingers as he pushed down into the mattress. He wanted desperately to not to have to leave, but with each thrust, the prickling behind his eyes got worse, until he had to bury his face in John's throat.

Their bodies moved together perfectly as John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders. His lips trailed along Sherlocks neckline, whispering softly. His words were sporadic, mingled with breathy moans. "I know... Sherlock.. Relax.. God I know."

One hand trailed from Sherlock's neck, settling at his hip, guiding Sherlock into him. The other carded through the detectives hair, pulling him gently to the side so John could bury his nose against Sherlock's collarbone.

With his cock pressed between their sweat slicked bodies John's breath became short and insistent. In between gasps he latched onto the delicate skin at Sherlock's neck. Leaving soft red marks that would never have the opportunity to fade.

The words spurred his hips faster, and Sherlock decided he didn't just not want to die, he didn't want to leave this moment. He wanted to stay buried inside of the doctor forever, because in that moment the chaos in his head stopped, replaced by only one word repeated over and over. John.

It was a moment before he realized it wasn't just in his head, he was reciting John's name like a prayer, lips whispering over the doctor's throat as if he lacked the strength to say them any louder.

"John!" He finally gasped, pushing himself up enough that he could look down at him. He was getting close, and he wanted to pull his soldier over the edge with him, the only place he'd be able to take him. Reaching between them, he wrapped his slender fingers around John's weeping member and began to pump in time with his thrusts.

"It's almost time John..." He said breathlessly, "Eyes closed until I say..." He bit back a groan and blinked against the pools that threatened to spill down his cheeks.

"Now." He breathed, his own eyes flying open to meet John's. For once he didn't care that John could see the emotions playing across his face or the tears that had finally escaped just to sacrifice themselves against his sharp cheekbones. For the first time he was completely open for John to see everything. His sentiment and his fear.

"Come with me John..." He begged. The words meant so much in that moment, he didn't want to lose him, after everything they'd been through. He pushed his hips deeper one last time, twisting his hand over the head of the John's shaft. Sherlock stilled, every muscle in his body coiled tight as a strangled cry was ripped from his lips. His hips thrust shallowly against the others prostate, his hand stuttering over the member, but his eyes never left John's as the orgasm swept over him entirely.

The world swam into focus as Johns eyes flew open, his already shallow breaths caught in his chest at the sight of Sherlock buried deep within him. He barely had a chance to see all the fear and sadness written across his features before Sherlock's words were coaxing him forward. John legs wrapped tightly around Sherlock's lower back, holding them together as the detective thrusts became increasingly erratic.

John was seconds behind. His back arched impossibly, instinctively pressing Sherlock deeper as his body shuddered against Johns. With a strangled moan John cried out Sherlock's name as he came leaving the evidence across his abdomen and Sherlock's hand, still moving softly with his own waves of pleasure. Johns eyes fluttered dangerously as he came, his vision blurred and, unbeknownst to him, a few tears fell from his eyes.

Slowly, the rest of the world slid back into place. John loosened his grip on Sherlock's hand, emotions crashing over him. He bit at the inside of his lip to keep it from visibly quivering with the tears threatening to spill out. His eyes still focused on Sherlocks, as if they could stay in this moment in time if only they didn't look away from each other.

Sherlock wanted so desperately to collapse on to the other man and fall into a restful sleep, but time was not on their side. Shifting so that he could touch John's face without pulling out of him, his thumbs gently brushed the tears away.

"No tears John. This isn't time for sadness. You'll have plenty of time for that. For now just, be happy in the fact that we do have this time..." He pressed a kiss to the blonde's forehead, lips trembling from either his post capital bliss or emotion, he wasn't sure which. Finally after a long moment, he rolled to the side, pulling the doctor with him and tucking John's face against his chest, his own chin resting on top of his head.

John was thankful for the reprieve. Burying his face there he attempted to calm himself, he had to. One hand splayed across Sherlock's chest, feeling his heartbeat. The steady rhythm slowly reassured him and after a few moments John managed to ward off the worst of the emotions so he could speak.

"How much time do we have?" John tried to remember how long they'd spent leaving the hospital, in the cab, but it all felt like a horrible dream, out of focus.

Sherlock took a few moments to do some calculations in his head. "One hour, twenty four minutes. Give or take a few seconds..."


	16. Your Guardian Angel

**A/N: It has been a crazy ride. We will be back in two weeks, a date will be announced on our tumblrs as it gets closer. Also we will be doing a video during the hiatus. If you want to livestream with us and ask us questions, or vent about how we ended part two please tell us when would be best for you. We will be doing the livestream when the most people can take part.**

**We love you guys. Thanks for sticking around. Part three will be called 'A Bit Better.' It is aptly titled, we promise.**

**Anyways. Enjoy the last chapter. Have a great two weeks. Come complain to us if you're angry. Shellysbees and Devokitsune on tumblr or Shellysbees on Twitter.**

Sherlock's hand came up to cover John's. He pulled back just enough so that he could look down at the blonde, committing his features to memory. Sherlock realized he wanted to spend his last moments memorizing that body, tracing with lips and tongue, something he should have had a life time to do. An hour seemed so meager in comparison.

"I want to do something for you." He whispered. He slipped to John's side, grabbing a flanel to wipe away the mess splattered across John's chest. When he nodded shortly Sherlock pushed on the smaller man's good shoulder to lie him on his back. The detective sat up, straddling him once more, and with a small smile, lowered his lips to start gently kissing and tasting every inch of his neck and chest. Nothing to start the spark from earlier, more like he was praising the soldiers body with his lips.

At first John wasn't sure of Sherlocks intentions, but as his mouth slowly traced along his collarbone, softly kissing the deep bruises forming there he began to understand. Each press of his lips to Johns skin felt like a goodbye, a piece of their future they would never have.

When he found the starburst scar where the bullet had first torn through all John could feel was a slight pressure on damaged skin. He had to bring a hand to his mouth, muffling the dry sob that tried to escape, as Sherlock slowly traced the old scar.

These wounds would never heal, not completely. John had been a broken man before Sherlock, no purpose. He wasn't ready to go back to that.

Sherlock felt John's breath hitch beneath his lips, but he didn't stop. Kissing down his stomach, ribs, and placing a small nibble to his navel he started working down John's legs.

Once he'd covered all of John's front, he nudged him over onto his stomach and started his way back up. Teasing nips were placed in various locations in an attempt to relax John; the backs of his knees, the swell of his arse, the back of his neck, and the tips of his ears. He spent more time again on the starburst on the back of his shoulder, but soon enough he was nudging John back to his front.

As the John turned, the bandage covering where Sherlock knew the brand had scarred him caught his eye, and an anger raged through him so fiercely that he shook, his lip twitching as he attempted to rein in his emotions.

"In this case John, I'm the lucky one..." He murmured, his eyes closed, fingers tracing over the edge of the bandage, "You bare the worst of this burden and for that I am truly sorry," He ended in a whisper.

He could feel himself coming down from the euphoric high, the weight of the situation finally setting in. He was going to die, for real this time. He wouldn't be coming back in three years, and John would have to live without him for good. The nightmares would return, he would stop eating. He only hoped Mycroft would do better at taking care of him this time around.

The trembling turned into light sobs and he pressed his body down into John's, his eyes wet with tears that flowed freely now. His shoulders rose and fell with shaking breaths as he silently broke down. What was it about this man that brought the cursed emotion out of him? "I'm not afraid for me John..." He managed, "I'm afraid for you..."

Johns throat tightened, but his tears stilled.

Both his arms snaked around Sherlock's shaking form. His good hand fingered through the small curls at the base of his neck that had refused to straighten, while the other traced down his spine.

"Don't worry about me, at least I'll know for sure this time. I won't be waiting. I- I'll be fine."

It was a lie, of course.

His face was dry, but his voice still wavered as he spoke against Sherlock's cheek. Starting at Sherlock temple he began placing small kisses down the side of his face and along his jaw, the taste of tears clinging to Sherlock's skin.

Working his way down to Sherlocks chin John nosed his face to the side so he could continue up to the opposite temple. There he stopped, burying his nose in the ginger hair. The emotions were becoming impossible to stave off, tears fell silently.

Sherlock let his face be kissed, he let John lie to him because in all honesty it did make him feel a little better, and he knew it made John feel better too. His lungs were beginning to tighten and each breath was becoming more labored, but he ignored it, letting his emotion cover up the slight wheezing.

When his face had dried and the torrent had been reined in he pulled away to look at John once more. His mouth opened wordlessly. He wanted to make a comment that would make John laugh, bat at him in irritation, anything to erase the look of pain and sadness etched into John's features, but no words came. A shooting pain ran up his spine and he knew it was starting.

John couldn't be here for this, Sherlock wouldn't let him see. He would not be the cause of more nightmares.

"A cup of tea would really make me feel better..." He found himself saying, "Who knows, perhaps tea does fix everything..."

His words sparked a humorless chuckle from John, which covered a muffled sob. He nodded though, running a hand down Sherlock's side as he slipped away. It was painful for John, leaving Sherlock when he knew how short their time was, but he couldn't deny the man. Planting his feet on the ground John grabbed his dressing gown, and after stealing one last glance at Sherlock, he hurried from the room.

He was barely present as he prepared the tea, going through the motions as quickly as possible. His hands shook terribly, causing him to spill sugar on the countertop. John didn't bother making himself any tea, it would just waste time.

The pain was increasing by folds now. With John out of the room Sherlock didn't have to hide the the signs. He turned his back to the door and curled his knees to his chest. His gastrointestinal tract felt like it was going to explode at any moment, and the tightness quickly turned into a burning sensation. He couldn't get enough air and it was starting to make his head spin. A flash of heat brought with it a wave of nausea that had him biting his lower lip to stifle a groan of pain.

Almost as fast as it came, the heat went, leaving him visibly shivering against the bunched up duvet. Painful needles waltzed up and down his spine until he could no longer feel where his limbs connected.

Numbness began to set in, starting at his fingers and toes, working its way up his body. Somehow, he knew it wouldn't be long. As the numbing began to slowly creep through his veins, the pain everywhere else intensified, trading step for step, and he let out a soft cry as a pain shot through his left eye.

Glass clattered to the floor in the doorway. John had returned, and the freshly brewed tea was seeping across the wood floors. Hurrying to his side John pulled on Sherlock's shoulder softly so he lied back flat on the bed.

John sat back on his heels for a moment, reality crashing over him. Sherlock was dying, really truly dying and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"I made... you watch... before." His words were jilted and choppy as the convulsions in his body and the tightness in his chest made it difficult to speak. Noises slipped through his throat unbidden between words, forced out by the pressure against his diaphragm with every contraction of his abdominal muscles, "Couldn't... do it.. again... bit... worse this time."

Smoothing Sherlocks disheveled hair back John dipped forward, pressing their foreheads together. "Daft idiot." He muttered softly, "I told you, I wasn't letting you face this alone. Not again."

Then John was pressing his lips to Sherlocks in a chaste kiss. Pulling away, just enough that their lips brushed against each other as they spoke, John whispered, "I love you Sherlock. I always will."

The last bit of pain slipped away as Sherlock attempted to process the proclamation. Brain stem, he thought absently. His world seemed to be spinning, but John was there. He was at the center of it, and for some reason that was important. He couldn't remember why.

There was a soft pressure on his head, and it pulled him back enough to realize that John was upset, and that was never good. His lips started to form a question, are you mad at me?, he swallowed it however when lips were pressed to his very briefly.

A warmth spread through him that made the numbness easier to handle, and for some reason the words made him very sad, something he didn't remember feeling often.

Sherlock reached a hand up, gently cupping the other's face and touching John seemed to bring everything back into focus so sharply he almost winced. He was dying, and John was telling him that he loved him... But he already knew that.

"Now who's being... a daft idiot?" He said, "don't state... something so obvious..." He let his lips curve into a smile then, one of the radiant ones that John seemed to like so much and he whispered back the words John had never known he'd heard.

"I was so alone..." His fingers grew weak on John's cheek and he closed his eyes trying to muster up the strength to make it stay the tremors finally fading, "And I owe you so much..." As he opened his eyes once more a tear slipped down his cheek. "One more favor John, just one miracle for me..." He could no longer hold his arm up and it fell limply against the sheets as John pulled away in shock. "Please...Let me go." His breath rattled into his chest,his eyes slipped closed, and then all was silent.

The tears were falling readily as the last breaths rack through his body, and when his eyes fell closed something inside of John stopped. His head bowed, settling on the still chest in front of him.

"No. God Sherlock, no. You can't be..." But he was, the still and silent body was irrevocable evidence. Moving back to cradle Sherlock's head gently in his hands, John pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock. I.."

His words were lost as his head was cradled against Sherlock's chest. Someone would come soon, that's what Mycroft had said right?

Unable to pull himself away he resolved to stay till the very end, until someone forced him away from Sherlock. Hands balled in tight, painful fists, as he began to weep shamelessly against the deathly still shoulder.


	17. quick upate

Hello lovelies. Devo and I are doing another live video chat this weekend. Sunday at 4pm eastern time. I will be posting the link on my blog, .com, so just come by there around 4 if you want to join us.


	18. we are live

(( watch?v=R8I1TpLf9c4))

we are devo shelly on youtube if that doesn't work


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